


Rapid Fire

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Anderson Is An Idiot, BAMF!John, BAMF!Sherlock, Bombs, Burning Bodies, Everyone's in Afghanistan, First Kiss, John Watson in Afghanistan, Kidnapped John, M/M, Moriarty is a shit, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock To The Rescue, Sherlock in Afghanistan, Sherlock never listens, Violent Murders, dead bodies, semtex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets handed a wonderful case by his brother -- to track down terrorists in Afghanistan. Sherlock finds himself in an unknown world where there's danger at nearly every turn, and some things go very right, and some things go very wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I would like to thank my WONDERFUL beta-reader, [ Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya), for being so timely and honest and just... a lovely person. This first chapter is for you, dear.
> 
> Secondly, this story is in first person POV, so if that bothers you, well, sorry.
> 
> Thirdly, the warnings and rating are for later chapters. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy :)

_"With a wild and waking thought_  
 _Of beings that have been,_  
 _Which my spirit hath not seen,_  
 _Had I let them pass me by,_  
 _With a dreaming eye!"_  
 _\- Edgar Allan Poe, Imitation_

* * *

 

Boredom. Noun. The condition of being bored or uninterested.

Bored. Adjective. Feeling weary because one is unoccupied or lacks interest in one’s current activity.

Uninterested. Adjective. Not interested in or concerned about something or someone.

Unoccupied. Adjective. Not engaged in work or –

“Sherlock.”

I kept my eyes closed for a moment longer, trying to finish reciting definitions, but my place was lost. Damn it all.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” I asked, rolling my head back to look towards the doorway from my position on the couch. There was my annoyingly older brother, appearing upside-down due to the way my head was angled. I felt like snickering childishly at him but somehow refrained.

Mycroft walked in without my invitation, taking a seat in the high-backed chair with the Union Jack pillow. That chair did not have an owner – I certainly never sat in it. Mrs Hudson had left it in here when I had moved in, but that was most certainly _not_ where I was going to be occupying my time.

My brother tapped his umbrella on the floor, directing my focus back onto him. How he knew I had started drifting I was not sure. My eyes had not left him the entire time. “I have a proposition for you.”

“No,” I answered without pre-empt, turning my head back around and closing my eyes. Mycroft’s ‘propositions’ were the epitome of stupid. They were a waste of my time, and I had a feeling that was the only reason I was assigned them. Too bad for Mycroft that I had stopped listening to him a long time ago.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft gave one of his trademark ‘stop being such a child’ sighs, “would you please listen to me? This one’s different. It’s an actual case for you.”

I raised my eyebrows expectantly, pressing my palms together under my chin. “I’ll listen, but I won’t make any promises.”

There was that sigh again, and more umbrella tapping came along with it.

“We’ve got wind of a potential terrorist cell in Afghanistan. But we don’t have proof, and we can’t shoot or bomb anyone without proof that they’re actually there.”

My lips had already curled up into a smile. “Yes,” I said, changing my answer as I rolled over. “ _That_ sounds exciting.”

“Sherlock, _please_ ; I haven’t finished yet.”

I scoffed, waving my hand at my brother as I stood from the couch in a flurry. “I’ll need everything you have—files, recordings, a video link to someone stationed out there. A drone would be nice too, if you can –”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft stood, grabbing my shoulders and forcing me to a halt. “I need intelligence _on the ground_. You need to go there.”

I froze at those words, and Mycroft’s hands tightened. For a long moment, I said nothing, staring back into my brother’s dark-blue eyes, trying to determine if he was joking or not.

He was not. He was completely serious.

“Are you insane?” I practically yelled, jerking out of his hold. “You want to send me into the middle of a hot zone in the Afghan war? Mycroft, I’ve no training; I can barely shoot a gun –”

“Oh, bollocks, Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft snapped, interrupting my rant – a rant that I thought was well-placed and well-deserved. It took him a while to compose himself, obviously wound up from multiple sources and events and trying not to take it out on me. “You are exceptional with a weapon of any kind and you know it. And you won’t be needing any training, because you’re going to be escorted by a hand-picked team of the best infantry soldiers we’ve got.”

I swelled under Mycroft’s compliment, though I knew it was really just a statement of fact. I _was_ exceptional with weapons, but I was not about to make this easy on my brother. If I did that, he could very well walk all over me. “I don’t work well with people, Mycroft. Your plan is flawed.”

There was a small moment where Mycroft just stood there, staring at me as if plotting the best way to kill me. Then he swung his umbrella and turned for the door. “Suit yourself,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m sure someone else will gladly take the job. Big money, you know.”

I gritted my teeth, frustrated at my brother. I knew he was serious that he would find someone else, even though he knew there was no one better than me. Most people would see this as an impasse, but I knew better. I knew he had won.

“Mycroft!” I crossed to the door in three long strides, finding him looking up at me expectantly from halfway down the stairs. “When do I leave?”

He smiled up at me – or as much of a smile as he could produce, which was just a smirk, really. “Your flight leaves at nine a.m. I’ll be here with a friend of mine at five to run through what all is to be expected of you.” He turned but paused before he had even dropped another step. “I’m giving you a lot of leniency and making a lot of exceptions for you. Please respect that.”

And then he left, using his umbrella as a cane, even though he was years away from needing one.

I backed into my flat, shutting the door slowly. A quick calculation told me, without looking at the clock, that it was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon. Just enough time to make a cuppa, pack my bags, and obtain four hours of sleep, in addition to other various exercises.

I wandered into the kitchen, filling the kettle and turning it on. As the water boiled, I brought out the sugar and took a teabag from the box in the cabinet. Once the tea was in my mug, I meandered into the bedroom – well, it wasn’t _the_ bedroom, but it was the downstairs bedroom. I took a sip of my tea before setting it on the chest of drawers and pulling my suitcase from the bottom of my wardrobe.

I packed the case slowly, carefully, every placement precise. Fold the shirts loosely to minimize creases, roll the jackets and trousers to eliminate creases. Shirts stacked by colour in the upper left corner, jackets in the middle, trousers in the upper right corner. Socks and pants – both folded – filled the remainder of the space along the bottom.

Now what? It was seven o’clock, my tea was cold, and I was bored again. Falling asleep was out of the question, obviously. I maintained four hours per night when I was not on a case – I found this to be the minimum my body needed to continue functioning – which meant that going to sleep now would result in waking up before tomorrow even came.

Unacceptable.

So I left the emptiness of my bedroom for the emptiness of the kitchen, where I poured my tea down the sink, and then continued into the emptiness of the living room. Part of me wondered, as I glided over to the right window, if Mycroft, my elder brother of seven years, had handed me this assignment to get me away from London. To get me out of 221B.

How long had it been, anyway? Since childhood, definitely.

Memories I had long ago repressed. Deleted? No. But not for sentiment. For reminders.

Why I am who I am.

Thinking of our home in the country, the large house and yard where two boys played and a mother worried over an absent father, brought a smile unwillingly to my lips. Pleasant picture, just laced with bad thoughts.

An absent father who would remain absent – died in a London alley when I was three. I do not remember; why would I? Mycroft does. He says Father was shot for the twenty pound note he was carrying in his wallet, nothing more.

 _Stop_.

Heels in the hallway, making their way slowly up the stairs.

I cocked my head curiously, wondering why my landlady was walking up to see me at this hour.

There was a knock and a soft “yoo-hoo,” though by now she ought to know I do not need her casual warning that she was coming. But, I suppose she was too polite to just come right in.

“Can I help you with something, Mrs Hudson?”

She walked into the kitchen, ignoring me and tutting under her breath. I could picture her shaking her head at the mess on the table quite clearly. There was a soft scrape, a clunk, a clatter, and she brushed her hands off. She had been carrying something and had set it down on the table. Hindsight said that was obvious; she always walked pitched to the right when she was balancing something in her hands. Apparently I had not been paying much attention.

“Mrs Hudson?” I asked again, nearly tempted to turn and glance at her, but why, when I could picture her so clearly?

“Just popped in to give you a little something, dear,” she said, her voice still carrying from the kitchen, though getting closer now, like her heels. Her walk was not currently pitched to the right.

“Why such a late hour? This is very unlike you, Mrs Hudson.” I was smiling, but it could not be heard in my voice. I enjoyed this woman, enjoyed her company. She was, for great lack of better terminology, my substitute mother.

A huff of air; indignant, but teasing. “Well, I had to make sure that snoopy brother of yours was gone, didn’t I? Can’t have him up here when I’m bringing you treats.”

I understood the joke she had just made about Mycroft’s failed dieting, and it caused me to finally turn around.

She was in a blouse and long skirt – mistake; I had pictured a dress – though they were purple, so point for me. Her hair was down, straighter now that the day’s wears were through with it and it was not showing off to anyone. She looked relaxed and calm, comfortable even in her day clothes.

I gestured her to the chair with the Union Jack pillow, where Mycroft had taken residence not that many hours ago. She sat, and she appeared much more suited for the chair. Though, maybe I should not have been recording data on that hypothesis. I was more than a little biased.

“Would you like some tea?” I offered, and it did not matter to me that I had made some slightly over two hours ago. Even though I, generally, preferred coffee to the typical British drink.

She nodded, smiling up at me kindly. “Milk and sugar,” she reminded me – as if I had forgotten. “And grab that tray of pastries while you’re out there.”

I smirked. She was never afraid to tell me what to do; not intimidated by me. Though, I imagine it would be difficult to cower before someone you had practically raised. I had known Mrs Hudson since I was eight and trying, though rather unsuccessfully, to work the Carl Powers case.

As previously noted, she was practically my mother. All that was missing was the ever-important DNA to prove ownership; _this is mine_. I did not have any of her DNA, but had she still claimed me? Hard to say.

Would require a bit more data.

I turned the kettle on as soon as I was in the kitchen, taking out the teabags, the milk, and the sugar. I set them off to the side while I fished out two plain black mugs. The water boiled in quick order and I stirred in the milk and sugar for my landlady – nothing for me; one mug with sugar was enough for the day.

“Pastries,” came a reminding, nagging voice from the living room before I had taken a step.

I smiled, balanced the two mugs in one hand, grabbed the small tray from the table, and returned to the living room.

“That’s a good lad.”

She smiled at me, and it was hard not to preen at her kind words. I handed her one of the black mugs – the one containing the milkier liquid – and set the tray nearer to her. At an arched eyebrow, I grabbed a brownie with rich icing, but I was not completely fooled, and she knew it.

“So,” she began, taking a sip of her tea, the quirk of her eyebrows telling me that I had prepared it perfectly – naturally –, “what did that nosy brother of yours want this time?”

I hesitated, the answer on the tip of my tongue. I took a drink of the hot liquid instead, mulling over how to answer. Most people… I did not bother with the emotions of most people. I did not care if I upset them, made them angry, sad, jealous, happy. I was indifferent to it all. But to Mrs Hudson, to my dearest friend, I cared.

I realised I had been silent for too long.

“A case,” I answered quickly, setting my cup down and taking a small nibble of the brownie. “He offered me a case.”

She shook her head disapprovingly. “An older brother should be caring for his younger sibling, not throwing him into danger.”

 _I think he is caring for me_.

She tutted. “What’s he got you doing this time? Tracing paperwork? Hunting a traitor to the country? Tracking a bank thief?”

I lowered my eyes for a moment, thinking quickly how best to answer her. Soft, skirting the edges to make it easier on her? Or direct, full force to get it over with and have no lies, no misguided concepts between us before I left?

“Looking into a potential terrorist cell in Afghanistan.” I have never much been a man of subtlety.

Mrs Hudson nearly dropped her tea.

I looked up to watch the range of emotions cross her face – shock, fear, disbelief, terror, denial. I wondered, fleetingly, if I had ever – would ever – show such expression on my face. I doubted it.

“Sherlock Holmes…” she sounded a bit breathless. “You’re not… you wouldn’t…”

Despite her inability at the moment to finish her sentences, I understood her perfectly. I smiled, perhaps a bit sadly, perhaps it had no emotion at all. “I agreed to go. I need to leave,” I told her, gesturing around the flat. “I’ve been here for years, but I need to get out for a while. And the case is marvelous.” I grinned.

Incorrect.

 _Lie_.

Actually, the case did not sound like much of a deductive challenge. Get in, find the terrorists, capture them, get out. Simple, easy, basic. I was hoping to stumble across some dead bodies on my adventures across the continent, perhaps some fresh ones from an IED. Maybe I could trace an IED. Limitless possibilities.

“But what of your cases here?” Sweet, milky, and sugary. Mrs Hudson’s voice was beginning to sound like the tea she was drinking. The voice of a beggar.

I waved a hand at her. “Missing jewels, missing children, unfaithful husbands? Boring. The occasional serial murderer is not enough to get me out of the rut that is boredom.”

My landlady sniffled, seeming to admit defeat. “I’ll keep the flat for you. Not a soul is going to touch this place until you return.”

I lifted my mug back to my lips, nursing it between my palms but not sipping from it. “Kind of you,” I whispered. “I’ll continue to have money sent to you.”

She shook her head forcefully, her eyes narrowed in a glare. “I won’t take it.”

 _Fine, I’ll simply have it wired to your account. You never check; you’ll never know_.

I smiled, acting defeat. “Alright, Mrs Hudson.”

We chatted and sipped our tea for the remainder of the night – her night, so approximately three more hours. I ate my brownie, because it was expected and delicious, and she told me stories of her late sister – stories that I had already heard at least twice, sometimes upwards of three times.

“I should be off, then,” she said, setting her empty mug down on the half-empty tray.

I had known she had mostly baked those pastries for herself. After all, I hardly ever ate anything, let alone brownies.

I set down my half-empty mug, folding my hands over my crossed leg. A second of silence and then a soft smile spread across my lips. “I’ll be back, Mrs Hudson. You don’t have to worry about whether or not I’ll return, because I have no intentions of spending the remainder of my days in a desert.”

Acrid heat, unruly soldiers, untrusting natives, rocky mountain ranges – not exactly my idea of a pleasant life style, let alone an ideal place to die.

Death.

Death was not exactly something I had ever contemplated. I certainly was not about to start now.

“I know. No, I know that, dear. I’m not worried about that,” Mrs Hudson waved her hand at me, pushing herself to her feet. I followed, walking her to the door with my hand on her arm. “Just…” she turned, pulling me down to her level and wrapping her arms around my neck. “You’ve never been wrong before. Don’t be wrong now, not when it counts.”

I closed my eyes tightly, gently holding her against me with a hand on her back. I had no _want_ to comfort, no _need_ to comfort, but where this old woman was involved, I made an attempt. I knew I had to comfort her, especially now.

Leaving for a war country was not a big deal to me, but to her, I could only imagine.

Imagine that it was like her sending her son off to war.

“I’m not wrong, Mrs Hudson,” I assured her, and she laughed, though the soft sound was a little watery.

She backed away, patting my chest with her fluttering hand. “I know, Sherlock.”

She was reassuring herself. Oh, Mrs Hudson.

“Go to sleep, Mrs Hudson. I’ll see you when I get back.”

She nodded quickly, blinking rapidly to hold back tears. Not quite fast enough – I caught the glint of a single drop of salted liquid sliding down her cheek as she turned away.

I closed the door quietly behind her when her heel clicks told me that she was a third of the way down the stairs, my palm resting against the aged wood before sliding away as I turned into the living room. I cleaned up the evidence of the conversation that had just occurred, washing the mugs and dumping the remainder of the pastries into the garbage bin. I put the assorted science instruments on the table that had been moved back in their original, disorderly organised placement.

With nothing else to be done, no other signs of my last night to remain for Mrs Hudson to see when she inevitably returned to take out what little food there was in the kitchen and to do her weekly dusting, I returned for the last time that evening to the living room.

It was long past dark outside, the artificial light of a London evening filtering in through the two windows against the far wall. I walked over to the left one, peering down at the street below for a handful of seconds. I wondered how long it would take me, out in that forsaken desert, to start daydreaming of this overcast, wet city. Would I ever? Or would I be completely content where I was, solving a case in a land very much unlike the city that was my home.

No point in thinking about it. Either it would happen or it would not.

I knelt down, pulling my violin case closer to me from where I typically kept it propped up against the window. I snapped the silver clasps—never locked because no one else ever touched this case, not even Mycroft—and opened the lid, taking a long moment to gaze at the instrument before I pulled it and the bow out.

Setting the shoulder rest firmly in place on the crook of my shoulder and neck, I lifted the bow to the strings. I had to pause a moment before a song came to mind, which was odd. I knew nearly all classical songs ever written, had them all stored away in a special room that was easily accessible and extremely organised. But each song that I thought of, I instantly discarded. Too sentimental. Too old. Too new. Too rapid. Too soft. None of them were right.

So I started composing.

Notes came and left my mind faster than I could keep up, and I had to focus to draw them back in order to keep up a steady rhythm. I did not bother writing them down – not this time, when I was only playing to waste time, only playing to keep myself from falling asleep.

But sleep was inevitable, and eventually midnight neared. I lowered my bow and replaced it tenderly in its case, setting it up against the wall in its usual place. I was not tired at all, but the seven and a half hour flight that was looming over me beckoned me to my bed, where I fell asleep after stripping down and pulling on pyjamas.

\----------------------------------------------------

The buzz on the downstairs door came exactly when I was expecting it to – five minutes before five in the morning, not a second before and not a second after. Mycroft was bizarrely punctual like that.

I trotted down the stairs, buttoning my suit jacket before I reached the hallway and pulling open the door before my brother could knock again. “Good morning, Mycroft,” I greeted, nodding briskly over his shoulder at the obviously military man – Major – dressed in civilian clothing who was standing just behind him. “Please,” I stepped back, opening the door wider and gesturing inside, “come in.”

Mycroft stepped up, lifting his eyebrow in an intrigued manner at me as he passed and mounted the stairs. The balding Major nodded stiffly at me and followed Mycroft up the stairs, holding a rather large duffel bag in his right hand. I narrowed my eyes on it as I swung the door shut behind me, but I could no more see through the material of the bag than I could read minds.

I climbed the stairs two at a time, reaching my flat only a step behind Mycroft’s military acquaintance – he had said friend, but Mycroft, like myself, did not have friends.

“Sherlock,” my brother turned to me from near the fireplace, a small smile fixed on his face, “this is Major Barrymore. He’s agreed to do me a favour on a Saturday morning and debrief you here in London so that you can get to work as soon as your plane lands in Kabul.”

My slow blink was my only acknowledgement to Mycroft before I turned to Barrymore, who narrowed his eyes slightly on me. “I’m going to assume you’ve already packed.”

“Obviously.”

“No good.” He shook his head, gesturing to the desert camouflage duffel bag. “I brought the clothes that you’re going to be wearing. Go ahead and take a look if you want.”

Feeling like I was walking into either a trap or a joke and not liking either of those options, I stepped forward and pulled at the zipper on the bag.

Inside were sand-coloured t-shirts, cargo trousers of a slightly darker shade, a desert camouflage outfit complete with Osprey body armour, and a pair of combat boots. Five changes of clothes, six if you counted the camouflage, which you really could not, because those would typically be worn over the other clothes. I narrowed my eyes at the bag but said nothing. If this was standard, then I would deal with it.

Noticing that there were more than clothes in the bag, I reached inside and started pulling things out.

“Ah, yes, your personal weapon,” Major Barrymore sounded a little pleased, though whether it was about the weapon or about the fact that I had not complained, I was not sure.

I did not care.

“Can you use that?” he asked of the SIG Sauer L106A1 in my hand.

I rolled my eyes. What kind of an idiot did this man take me to be?

With unpracticed ease, I slid out the clip, unloaded a bullet, reloaded it, slid the clip back into place, cocked a bullet into the chamber, turned the safety off, and aimed the gun at the wall, my finger pressed flat against the trigger guard.

“I could take it apart as well, if you wanted me to,” I offered, setting about taking the bullet from the chamber and putting it back into the clip, “but I think that’s a fair example.” I made a show of turning the safety back on before sliding the gun back into the holster I had found it in.

“Point made, Mr Holmes,” Barrymore said, folding his arms across his chest. “You’re also going to have grenades on you when you get over there, as well as your own Personal Role Radio. I doubt that they’ll have you carrying any of the larger weapons.

“The vehicle you’re going to be traveling in is a Vector, which is a newer, modified version of the Pinzgauer. This model is a hardtop, so any small caliber weapons won’t be able to pierce through it. These vehicles are mostly used on patrols, so riding in one shouldn’t raise any suspicion.

“You’ve been assigned to work with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I, personally, haven’t met any of them, but as a team, they’re very well-known and distinguished.”

“Which of them will I be working with?” I asked, having made the deduction this morning while awaiting Mycroft that this would be the infantry team that I would be assigned to.

I knew that infantry teams were made up of eight members, and, when assigned to missions, those eights members were split into two teams of four. I naturally knew everything about every member of the Fusiliers, and there was really only one I did not want to get stuck with. He was a rookie, only in the desert for a few months. A replacement for an expert bomb-tech who had got himself shot while trying to defuse a bomb that ended up exploding anyway.

Three people dead.

Four wounded.

“You’ve been granted a lot of special treatment, Mr Holmes.” Major Barrymore was speaking again. “You’re going to have a five-man escort, and I’m sure you’re aware of how unusual that is.”

I nodded.

“Sergeant Donovan, Warrant Officer Lestrade, Lance Corporal Anderson, Staff Sergeant Dimmock, and Captain Watson have all agreed to accompany you into the mountains.”

I had to fight back my sneer – I would not have, except that neither Barrymore nor Mycroft knew that I had already researched the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Lance Corporal Anderson was the officer I had been hoping to avoid. He was an obvious idiot from every report I had read on him. He was going to get us killed or blow the mission.

Or both.

Unfortunately, this was a volunteer mission, and infantry members were a fairly tight-knit breed.

I was stuck with him.

“What, exactly, is it that I’m supposed to be doing while I’m in and around the capital city of Afghanistan, Major Barrymore?” I asked, leaning back against the high-backed chair.

Behind me, Mycroft made a noise in the back of his throat that caused me to turn to him.

“We can’t tell you everything, of course,” he said, swinging his umbrella a few centimetres off of the floor.

_Oh, no, naturally not. Send me out there blind, how about._

Secretly, though, I was glad. Glad that I had to figure it out for myself.

“But,” Mycroft continued, “I can tell you that, from what we’ve heard, they’re in the mountains to the northeast of Kabul. There are two possible locations for them to be set up. The first is twenty-five kilometres west along the Kabul-Nangarhar Highway and then fifteen and a half kilometres north along the edge of the mountains.”

Mycroft sighed slightly, tapping his umbrella on the floor. “If they are not there, then the only other place that we know of them to be is an additional thirty-two kilometres straight west of that spot through the mountains on a narrow dirt road.”

“Sounds intriguing,” I said. “Now get out of my flat so that I may enjoy my last moments of solitude.”

Mycroft gifted me with his ‘why do I waste my time on you’ sigh and gestured the Major out of the door. “Oh, and Sherlock,” he said, stopping on the landing, his back to the doorway, “you’re taking a private jet so that you don’t have to go through any checks for that weapon that you’re now carrying. Anthea is accompanying you. Be kind to her, please.”

Heavy footsteps – step, step, step, pause, pause, handle, hinges, slam, _silence_.

Anthea.

How dull.

* * *

_"For that bright hope at last_  
 _And that light time have past,_  
 _And my worldly rest hath gone"_  
 _\- Edgar Allan Poe, Imitation_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there ends the first chapter :) 
> 
> If you noticed and/or recognized the Poe quotes, there will be more. Many more.... you have been warned ;)
> 
> I'll be updating every two weeks, so stay tuned. In the meantime, I love comments, especially ones with some constructive criticism. I really do love hearing what you all think -- it motivates me to write more, and typically better and longer chapters.
> 
> Also, any mistakes are my own, as sometimes I like to fiddle ;)
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's plane lands in Kabul, and he is introduced to a certain Captain and his team members. Deductions are made and tempers fly as they all sit on the edge of something larger than what they are prepared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished chapter five early, so I posted this early!! :D Never say I've never done anything for you guys ;)
> 
> No warnings for this chapter, yay! :) There's a bit of showing-off done by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and some flirting.
> 
> As always, Anderson is an idiot, and Donovan is a lovesick puppy. 
> 
> This is a really big deduction chapter, which was so much fun to write. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_"Ah! what is not a dream by day_  
 _To him whose eyes are cast_  
 _On things around him with a ray_  
 _Turned back upon the past?"  
_ _\- Edgar Allan Poe, A Dream_

* * *

 

My flight landed at Kabul International Airport at eight seventeen that evening, twelve minutes past schedule. There had been a delay at Heathrow, to my severe agitation and Anthea’s complete ignorance.

After the longest twelve minutes of my life, Mycroft’s private jet had finally taken off into the air.

Each passing hour of my trip had given me new reason to hate flying. No one would talk to me after the first three minutes of mandatory instruction were completed. Anthea remained with her nose in her BlackBerry the entire time – take-off and landing included – which was fine, because I had no desire to speak with her.

I had wondered, briefly, if Mycroft had warned the young flight attendant on board of my deductive skills, and if that was the reason she seemed to be so nervous during the preflight briefing. The thought was quickly dismissed, however. One detailed sweep of my eyes had told me everything – nearly everything – that I needed to know or would ever want to know about her.

One cat and a large dog – a German Sheppard, most likely. Suffered from anxiety attacks as a pre-teen and still thinks that she could break into one at any moment. Trying to stop a bad nail chewing habit. Really quite young – twenty-six – but already a mother of one and wanting another. High sex drive and having an affair – with the pilot of this plane, it would seem. I did not know her name, though, because she did not ever wear her name tag – obvious in the lack of pinholes on her uniform.

The short thrill of that deduction had lasted all of five seconds. The boredom of the rest of the flight had been spent trying to come up with ways to survive if the plane were to crash at every moment we hit turbulence. Conclusions: irrelevant – at this altitude, at this speed, we would all die.

Still, the thoughts were preoccupying.

Now I did not have to worry about that, though. Now the plane was on the ground, and I was walking down the ladder with the duffel bag at my side towards the tarmac below me.

Anthea had not offered any words, and neither had I. 

As soon as I reached the ground – my legs a little unsteady from the long flight – I caught sight of a man walking towards me. I was the only one here, and Mycroft’s jet was the only plane on the tarmac, so I walked forward, meeting him halfway.

He was shorter than I was, a good six inches at least. Sandy-blond hair that was starting to grey was cut into a military style, though not as short as most infantry cuts. His blue eyes were aged far beyond his years – lifetimes old – but they were intriguing, not disturbing. He was not dressed in camouflage, just in boots, cargo trousers, and a tucked-in form fitting white t-shirt. His tags were just barely visible under the fabric.

Army doctor. Obvious.

“Captain John Watson,” he said, holding out his hand – his right hand, but there had been a moment of hesitancy on his left hand.

I shifted my hold on the duffel bag and shook his hand. “Sherlock Holmes. Where’s the rest of your team?”

“Sitting anxiously at a temporary base on the northeast edge of town, waiting for us to show up,” John answered, turning around and leading the way from the refueling jet that was bound for an instant turnaround back to London.

The heat of the desert – heat that I had overlooked in my excitement while I had been packing – was a dull throb, fading out with the sinking sun. The black asphalt was still rolling off waves of heat, however, and I was soon overly warm in my suit.

Captain Watson glanced back at me, as if reading my thoughts. “You have something else to wear, right? Something practical?”

I sighed insufferably, knowing that now I owed Mycroft another favour for the clothes. “Yes,” I replied, gesturing at the duffel bag in my hand.

“Good. You should probably change before we leave the airport. Do you have a weapon?”

I nodded in affirmation.

“You should holster that as well. I’m not saying that you’re going to need it – it’s a short ride from here to where we’re set up for the night – but better safe than sorry.”

“Do you really believe that, Captain Watson?” I asked, somehow doubting that the soldier before me had climbed ranks by being the man in the back of the team, never taking risks, always being prepared.

He paused at the door leading into a side section of the airport, his hand hesitating on the silver bar handle. Turning to me, he looked calm, but I could sense that I was treading dangerous waters.

Interesting.

“It’s just John, please,” he spoke at length, pulling open the door and gesturing me inside. “And it’s my job to keep my team safe, Mr Holmes; of course, I believe it.”

I walked past him towards where the only logical place to house a toilet would be. I stepped inside the small room, and John did not follow me.

I pictured him standing just outside of the door, hands behind his back, legs slightly spread in what most people would definitely take as an intimidating stance. Especially given the Browning L9A1 strapped to his right thigh and the definition of muscles a man only gets from working long, hard hours.

I shook my head to clear it of the unneeded and non-useful image, setting the bag down on the counter by the sinks. Tugging the zipper open, I pulled out a change of clothes and the tan boots with the thick soles. I stripped quickly, rolling up my suit and tucking it into the very bottom of the duffel bag.

I pulled the cargo trousers on first and was unsurprised to find that they were a perfect fit. There really was not much about me that Mycroft did not know, and though that bothered me to no end, I was finding it rather convenient as of late. The shirt came next, quickly followed by the boots, which I tucked the legs of the cargo trousers into before lacing them tightly to the top.

The weapon I was a little more hesitant towards. I had been given the luxury of a convertible holster – pull off the straps of one, insert the straps for the other, and, voilà, two holsters – and I was not sure which one I should use. Shoulder holsters were more comfortable, certainly, but, requiring a cross-draw, took longer to get the gun from.

For some reason unknown to me, I had an innate urge to impress the army doctor standing outside of the bathroom door. Stupid, illogical, but true. He had not hated me at first glance, and I was clinging to that. So I buckled the SIG Sauer L106A1 to my thigh, threading the strap through my belt to hold it up. After zipping closed the duffel bag, I returned to the small, mostly private terminal.

John was not standing exactly like I had pictured. His shoulder – left shoulder – was leaning against the wall, his left ankle crossed over his right. To anyone passing by, he looked casual, like he was waiting for a friend, possibly watching for said friend in the small crowd, but I saw through it.

His right hand was open for shooting, something he could easily do from this position. Granted, he only had one foot planted, but he had a wall for additional support. His holster was even unclipped. And he was not scanning for friends, he was scanning for threats.

“Ready,” I said, and John turned, obviously having heard the door open when I had exited the bathroom.

He ran his eyes over me slowly, his gaze pausing on the holster at my hip. “Have you ever carried a gun before?” he questioned, leading the way to a set of doors on the other side of the small wing of the rather large airport.

I quickly matched pace with him, adjusting my stride to make up for the additional weight of the holster on my right thigh. The strap pulled at my belt, which tugged my hips a bit out of line, and I had to adjust for that as well. Annoying.

“Not in a thigh holster. Well, I’ve worn one, for scientific purposes, but it’s illegal to carry in London.”

John raised his eyebrows without turning to look at me, pushing through the set of double-glazed doors that led outside, where it was already ten degrees cooler than it had been when we had entered the building. “Yet you’ve carried a pistol and presumably shot one before?”

I thought I detected a smirk in his tone, but I was not sure, and I was not going to glance over and check. “Of course I have. I’m a consulting detective; do you really think I would have lasted this long if I didn’t know how to use a weapon?”

John did not answer me, and he did not say anything else as we made our way to a Land Rover parked against the pavement a slight ways to the west of the doors. Annoyingly, though, I guess, fairly, he opened the driver’s door and jumped inside.

With a small roll of my eyes, I tossed my duffel bag into the backseat and pulled myself up beside the blond Captain.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as he put the key in the ignition, turning it with skilled fingers that could just as easily end a life as save one. I made a mental note to never underestimate this man on anything.

\----------------------------------------------------

“Liar,” I said, continuing a conversation that we had already had, and that had theoretically ended back at the airport.

We were outside of the airport grounds by now, just turning onto the road that would eventually deposit us onto the highway. John was an expert driver, precise as I was learning he was with everything, and he had not felt the need to fill the silence that had surrounded us, a quality that I found exceptionally rare and very much to my liking.

My own mind was loud enough without being filled with the thoughts of others.

John angled slightly towards me, his eyebrows knitted together. “Sorry, what?”

I tilted my head minutely to the side, trying to detect what that variation in his voice was.

Oh. He thought I was talking to myself.

_You have a lot to learn about me, Captain John Watson._

“’ _Better safe than sorry_ ,’” I replied, quoting him from earlier. “You said you believed it, and I’m calling you a liar.”

A muscle jumped in John’s jaw, his biceps tightened, but his hands did not clench on the steering wheel as he turned onto the Kabul-Nangarhar Highway, the one we would be travelling in the morning as a team tracking down terrorists.

He was very good at hiding his anger.

“And what makes you say that, Mr Holmes?” he enquired, his voice perfectly normal, if not a little interested in what I would say.

“Sherlock,” I corrected automatically, realising that I had forgotten to mention it when we were at the airport. “Mr Holmes is my brother.”

I turned away from John, watching the light seep away from the city around me. We were heading away from the central hub, into the more desolate, run-down section of the city, and it showed in the passing structures of the buildings. Kabul was so vastly different from London, but there was one thing that every city shared in common with all of the others – there was always a poor sector, and always a homeless sector.

“I observed you,” I spoke before too long had passed. “I know that you’re left handed, but you’re a much better shot with your right. I know that you studied medicine at St Bartholomew’s Hospital in London, and that you’ve been enlisted for the last nine years and have refused to go home under any circumstance, which tells me that you lack a strong connection with your family but have a strong sense of duty to everyone here. On the topic of your family, I know that you haven’t spoken to them in well over a year and that you’re angry at your brother. I know that you were shot in your left shoulder last year and that you’ve only recently been given a full bill of health. You received that wound protecting your team while your bomb specialist tried to diffuse a car bomb, an effort that inevitably failed. And I know that, while you may care enormously about your team members and their safety, you have a blatant disregard for your own.”

John exited the highway, coasting down an exit ramp that angled off to a small road heading north. He pulled over just past the exit, easing the vehicle into park and turning to face me.

“How could you _possibly_ know any of that?”

My eyes quickly roamed over his face, trying to gauge his reaction, to see if there was any potential for anger or annoyance hidden somewhere amongst the lines of his features. For some reason, I very much wanted John Watson to _not_ hate me. But all I saw was open shock and awe, two expressions that I had not been gifted with in a very long time.

“When you first offered to shake my hand, you instinctively began raising your left arm first, because that’s your strong hand, but you settled on your right hand because you know that most people are right handed.” I turned toward him, gesturing at the pockets of his cargo trousers. “Also, you keep everything that you would need to use in a hurry on your left side. But,” I pointed at the holster on his thigh, “your gun is on your right, so I’m assuming that you were trained by a right handed – oh, no, never mind,” I corrected myself, staring intently at his eyes. “Your right eye is dominant, so you had to adapt to shooting right handed in order to be a better shot. Well done.”

John looked a little numb, but he had not interrupted yet and he did not look lost, so obviously I was getting somewhere.

“The fact that you’re a Captain and your age told me that you’ve been enlisted for a while, but no more than ten years. Nine was really just a shot in the dark – good one, though. Nine years in the army puts you in your upper thirties, and I would assume exactly thirty-nine, judging by what I’m sure your relationship with your family is like. Given your age, and subtracting out time in the military and time spent in your later years in uni, that narrows down significantly the number of hospitals in London willing to allow students to use their labs for training. Bart’s seemed like the most obvious fit, and I was right.”

I wondered, for a moment, if I should stop while I was ahead. These were quite personal things I was acknowledging about John, a man I did not really know – though obviously I knew him well enough.

John swallowed. “What else?” He sounded rather energised, slightly alive. As if my deductions about him had awoken something inside of him that he had not known was there.

Fascinating.

“You wear a watch on your left wrist that’s obviously special to you, going by how clean it is. The scratches on the face weren’t made by you, even though you’re in a warzone. So, it’s had a previous owner. Watches are good gifts from one man to another, typically from father to son. Those watches, however, are, more often than not, hand-me-downs, and this is a fairly modern edition. Sticking with close family, that leaves a brother. You’re angry at him, which is fairly evident from the way you never glance at the watch for the time; you read it in the angle of the shadows cast by the sun – I noticed that when we were leaving the airport. But you don’t hate him, because you still wear the watch and take care of it even though he isn’t around to see.”

John’s posture had shifted slightly, his eyes narrowed in thought as he watched me. Not guarded, though, which I took as a positive sign to keep going.

 “When I knew I was going to be assigned to your team, I looked up your mission history – success rates, members that have come and gone through the years; basic statistics. I saw that there was an explosion with your old bomb technician, that four people had been injured during the blast.

“When you stopped in front of me on the tarmac, you were at attention, but when we walked out of the building, you had let your guard down a little. Due to muscle damage, your left shoulder droops lower than your right when you’re not thinking about it, and you turn that side of your body away from people subconsciously, trying to hide the wound that no one can see anyway.

“And all of that, added up together, gives me your profile. And from your profile I can conclude that you have no issues running straight at enemy fire with only a handgun, especially if it meant making sure that the rest of your team got home safe.”

I flicked my gaze between John’s eyes, noticing the slight dilation of his pupils. His pulse was slightly elevated as well, but not alarmingly – just barely noticeable. I would not have noticed at all if I had not taken his pulse visually before I had started talking. “And so there, you see? You’re a liar.”

John ducked his head down, rubbing his hand over his mouth and staring at his watch as if it alone had divested all of this information to me. A ridiculous notion, to say the least. “That… was amazing,” he said after a while, lifting his head to grin up at me. “That was bloody amazing.”

“That’s not what people normally say,” I said before I could stop myself.

John cocked his head to the side. “And what do people normally say?”

I took a slow inhale, trying to remember why I had quit smoking when I so desperately wanted one right now. “’Piss off.’” The corner of my mouth twitched up into a smile, a true one that made the corners of my eyes crinkle.

John turned away, laughing as he threw the Land Rover into gear. “I can imagine. But still, that was… well, I don’t really have words. And this is what you do for a living?”

I shrugged, leaning forward so that my forearms rested on the dashboard. “More or less. I usually deduce things about dead people, though. Or missing people. You know, because neither are there to tell us the facts themselves.”

John shook his head, obviously still in awe, as he drove down the dark road, taking turns into alleys that did not look like they were wide enough to fit the Land Rover.

“So tell me,” I asked, turning to face John, whose face was illuminated by the lights from the dashboard, casting dark shadows under his cheekbones and eyes, enhancing his brow and jaw line, “did I get anything wrong?”

I always got something wrong. It was inevitable to get at least one detail misplaced, mixed up, or forgotten.

“My watch has had a previous owner, and you’re correct in saying that it wasn’t my father. It was originally a gift from Clara to Harry, but Harry gave it to me when they broke off the engagement. Or, rather, Harry broke it off.”

My eyebrows knitted together in my confusion. “So what, exactly, did I get wrong?”

“Harry is short for Harriet.” John smirked at me. “Thought you were supposed to be some big time detective.”

“Sister,” I groaned at my mistake, dropping my forehead onto my folded hands. “ _Sister_.”

“As for my shoulder,” he started, and I lifted my head quickly, afraid I had said two things wrong. John laughed. “Calm down, you got that right, I just figured I would fill in what you didn’t say.”

Honesty. He was being honest and forthcoming to me. Why?

_Why me? I don’t deserve it, John, believe me._

I sat up, leaning back against the seat and steepling my fingers under my chin. “Enlighten me, please.”

“Well,” he turned the vehicle down another narrow alley, guiding it onto a wider road on the other side, “it was intended to be a kill shot. Entrance in the front, exit in the back. Large caliber. Shattered my clavicle and grazed the subclavian artery. My other team members were distracted by the sudden burst of enemy fire, and I would have died if my nurse hadn’t been only a few feet behind me. He dragged me behind our vehicle and kept pressure on the wound until… well, until the bomb went off. The gunfire ended there and we were able to get back.”

Not knowing what exactly I was supposed to say to that – I never tended to trouble with emotional replies or condolences – I said nothing at all, staring out through the windshield at the approaching buildings.

“Why are we staying out here?” I finally asked, glancing sideways to follow the shape of an old man fall out of sight behind a building.

“Around six months ago, another infantry team was patrolling through this part of the city. They found this house standing empty, the houses in its immediate vicinity occupied by only the old or the sick. They asked around about why the house was abandoned, and the consistent reply obtained was that it was cursed, and no one would elaborate. So, they claimed it as British Army property, and it’s just been sitting there until this morning when we moved in for the night.”

“Cursed?” I asked, my voice light with a hint of laughter. It was a tone I had not heard my vocal chords produce in a long time.

John rolled his eyes, turning down a wider alley off of the road. “Like I said, no one would elaborate. I’m assuming someone died in the house.”

I made a disbelieving noise, gazing out of the side window. “Sound logic, but I doubt that that’s the reason.”

“Well then, what do you –”

“Captain?” a disembodied voice scratched around the interior of the vehicle, cutting off John’s question. “Watson, is that you driving down our road?”

John reached onto the floor between his seat and mine, shuffling around with his hand, presumably in search of the voice. I glanced at the floor and found a long range walkie-talkie, picking it up and pushing it into John’s palm.

“Yeah, Dimmock, it’s me. I’ve got Mr Holmes with me. Everything went fine on my end. How’s it been for you guys?”

There was a moment’s pause before the voice – belonging to someone named Dimmock, a man by the sound of his voice – came back through the line to reply. “Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Natives want us to leave, Lestrade won’t stop bossing us around and fussing like a mother hen. Donovan’s been trying to teach that rookie, Anderson, how to break apart electrical wires and rewire them. I have to tell you, Captain. I’m glad he isn’t a bomb tech. He’d be a dead one.”

John’s wide smile dropped at that last comment, and he took a moment to respond. “Alright, Dimmock. Watch our backs as we’re coming in. And don’t shoot us, please.”

With a sigh, John dropped the walkie on the floor again, refocusing on the empty road. “He’s a good soldier. He just likes to talk about everyone else. Can’t get that kid to shut up for anything,” he huffed, readjusting his position on his seat.

Another two hundred metres of driving and John pulled over for the second time, but this time he turned the Land Rover off. With the last growl of the engine went the lights, and we were cast into near total darkness.

I closed my eyes, letting them adjust to the pitch behind my eyelids, and when I opened them, I could at least see shadows. John was looking over at me, though I could not see his expression, which I found ultimately irritating.

“Nice to not be dealing with an idiot for a change,” was all he said before he opened his door and jumped down, his boots hitting the ground with a soft thud.

I blinked slowly and mimicked the motion, closing the door as quietly as possible and opening up the rear door to grab my duffel bag.

John was waiting for me on the other side of the Land Rover. He nodded wordlessly across the street at a one-storey home without windows. As we approached, John lifted his hand in a wave towards the roofline, and, following his gaze, I noticed the silhouette of a sitting man holding a gun. Dimmock, I presumed.

“Ready to meet the kids?” John asked quietly, his hand poised on the doorknob. His white shirt was very visible in the dark, enhancing the width of his shoulders and the tone of his torso. His position looked cocky and careless, and it was easy for me to imagine him in his mid-twenties, going through basic training until he finished school as a doctor.

I arched an eyebrow down at him, though I doubted he could see me in the lacking light. “Should I be afraid?”

John chuckled, turning the knob. “They’re a bit like teenagers, the lot of them, but they’re all house-trained, at least,” he joked, pushing the door open. “It’s just us, guys,” he called past the threshold before he took a step inside, gesturing me in behind him.

There was a scrape that sounded like a chair against a stone floor and shuffled footsteps from deeper in the house as I closed the door behind myself. Three people – two men and a woman, all wearing clothes similar to mine – pushed into the room via a doorway off to our left. I realised, taking in the gas lanterns that each of them carried, why I had thought the house had no windows – a false initial assumption.

It was not that it was lacking windows, it was that they were boarded up and there were no lights on inside.

“He’s a bit scrawny. Not much muscle on him. How’s he going to handle a gun?”

I turned my attention to the woman, her dark, naturally curly hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her shirt was tucked in to her cargo trousers, boots laced tightly all the way up to the top. Professional.

I was about to reach for my gun to show her exactly how well I could use it – using the same demonstration I had given Major Barrymore – but John spoke up before I had the chance.

“Donovan, please.” His tone was chiding, but he sounded tired, like he was constantly telling her off. “I assure you, he can handle a weapon, and he can stand on his own.”

She narrowed her eyes on me in doubt, the rich light cast by the lanterns making her look more menacing than I assumed she was. Still, I made a mental reminder to keep an eye on her.

“Lestrade, would you please give him what he needs for tomorrow?” John asked. “Make sure he’s got all of his rations, double-check that his PRR is working properly, everything on the checklist.”

I had a flash of disappointment that John was not going to be showing me everything, but I quickly cast that thought aside as irrational. Why should it matter to me who tells me what’s going in my pack and what I have to carry in my bulletproof vest? Whether John helped me tune my Personal Role Radio or whether Lestrade did should have made no difference to me.

So why did it?

The man standing on the far left of the group nodded, his grey hair flashing silver for a moment in the low light. I narrowed my eyes in thought, finding it interesting that he was older than John, yet ranked below him. Would definitely require more facts and background on why that was.

“Good, thanks.” John sounded winded, exhausted. Running on fumes for too long, trying to prepare his team for this mission and all of the others they had been on. Trying to keep them all safe so that they could return home to their families. “I’m going to grab a bite and then kip for a while. How long has Dimmock been up there?” he asked, gesturing above us to the ceiling as he started walking towards a doorway in the far right corner of the room.

“Couple hours,” Donovan answered, shifting her weight around so that she was always focused on John, always watching her leader. Point for her – her manners might leave something to be desired, but she was loyal and protective.

John nodded briskly before stepping into the darkness of the room beyond this one, out of my line of sight. I felt the innate urge – need – to follow after him.

“Anderson, go relieve him,” John instructed, his voice carrying through the walls. “And if you complain, so help me, I’ll make you take first watch every night for the duration of this mission.”

I hid my grin as Anderson pushed past me and out of the door.

“Come on, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade called my attention to him, waving me back into the room they had walked out of. “Allow me to give you a rundown of everything.”

“Just Sherlock, please,” I told him, following as he walked through the doorway.

The room beyond, lit only by the minimal light from Lestrade’s lantern and then Donovan’s when she entered behind me a few moments later, was thinly furnished. Five cots were pushed up against the walls, spread out as a defense against attack – no more than two people could be shot from any entrance to the room, allowing a chance for the others to wake up and fight back. Beside each cot, except two, lay a semi-automatic assault rifle – two L85A2’s and one L129A1 DMR – a rucksack, and Osprey Body Armour.

“Don’t worry,” Lestrade spoke, gesturing me towards a cot along the far wall – strategically the least likely to get shot – that had no gun or vest lying beside it, “you’re not sleeping on the floor.”

“So I assumed, what with there being six of us, one on watch, and five cots. I’m also assuming regular rotations, either two or three hours, judging by the need for Anderson to head up there now, so a constant need for only five cots would be necessary.”

_I’m not an idiot, though obviously you are, if you really thought I would have missed that_ , I thought at Lestrade’s slightly impressed expression as he took a seat on a cot, pulling out a small bag from underneath it.

“Told you,” John appeared through another doorway, a can of baked beans and a bun in his hands, “he can handle himself.”

“Why? Because he figured out basic math and logic?” Donovan countered, sitting down on a cot across the room.

“Donovan –”

“Captain,” I cut John off, my eyes cutting to his for a moment, “it’s fine.”

John stared at me for a moment longer before lowering himself onto a cot directly across from the first doorway – strategically the most likely to get shot.

I smirked. “It’s not Miss Donovan’s fault that her father abandoned her when she was…” I tilted my head at her, “six, wasn’t it?”

Her jaw clenched.

Lestrade stared at me as I took a seat on the cot I had been gestured towards. He handed me off the bag he was holding while Donovan seemed to be trying to come up with words.

She reeled on John. “Why did you tell him about me? What else did you tell him?”

I jerked my head up, glaring at her from across the room. She was accusing _John_ , really? Did she really know John so little as to assume that he would tell a complete stranger his team’s personal secrets?

Idiot. Complete idiot.

John looked taken aback, obviously as shocked as I was that she would immediately jump to those conclusions. “Sally, I didn’t –”

“That is my _life_ , Captain,” she sneered, and it took an astonishing amount of willpower for me to not jump up and physically take her down a level.

I blinked.

_Since when am I physical?_

_I’m not._

At least I did not think so.

“Sergeant Donovan,” I called, loud enough and direct enough to pull her attention at me. “Captain Watson told me nothing about you. _You_ , however told me everything I needed to know.”

She snarled at me, taking a challenging step forward. “Bullshit.”

John made a move to stand up, but I beat him to it, holding my hand out at him in a ‘wait’ sign. Surprisingly, he listened.

“When you entered the room, you did so only a step in front of Lestrade. You always kept one foot firmly planted near him, even when you turned your body to follow John when he walked away. You’re loyal, you’re professional, but obviously,” I made a gesture at John in reference to the accusations she had just made, “you don’t really trust them.”

She stared at me, fighting down the anger that had suddenly burst from her. I could see her fury, pent up from years in boot camp and trying to prove herself to overbearing men, swirling on the other side of her dark eyes.

“Now, I can’t order you what to do, because I have technically no authority over you,” I said after giving her a moment to compose herself, “but I suggest you back off and sit down.”

The tension rolling off of her was nearly palpable, but she finally turned towards John, apologised, and walked briskly from the room.

“Whoa, hey, where are you going?” A middle-aged man had just walked into the room, and he held up his hands as Donovan shoved past him. “Where’s she going?” he asked to the rest of us, walking over to the unoccupied cot and taking a seat, setting his L85A2 on the floor slightly underneath it.

“Leave it be, Dimmock,” John advised with a sigh, taking a bite of his beans. His eyes were on me, however, trying to communicate something that he was not actually allowing me to read. Afraid of the others seeing? Possibly. More likely that he was afraid of me seeing something that he did not want me to see.

I had to applaud his ability to hide his emotions.

I retook my seat on the cot, opening up the bag that Lestrade had given me.

“So,” the Warrant Officer said, pointing at the bag, “why don’t you tell me what everything is and how to use it and I’ll tell you if you’re wrong.”

* * *

_"What though that light, thro' storm and night,_   
_So trembled from afar --_   
_What could there be more purely bright_   
_In Truth's day-star?"_   
_\- Edgar Allan Poe, A Dream_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was totally not expecting the amount of positive feedback I received from the first chapter! *cries and babbles about how lovely you all are*
> 
> Seriously, though, I write for you guys, and I live off of praise. Seriously. I crave it. ;D But honestly, you all rock, and thank you so much for taking the time to read this and support me. 
> 
> I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations, and I hope they all continue to do so. I love you all very much. *hugs and kisses*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey has begun. Sherlock and the team on infantry soldiers head out into the desert in search of the infamous Spyder, a terrorist group that has been the thorn in the side of the British government for the past months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow. Sorry for the long two weeks, guys. I don't know if it was as long for you as it was for me, but if it was, I am sincerely sorry. Finals week really got the best of me and... yeesh.
> 
> So... this is a dialogue chapter. Like, seriously. BIG TIME talking. But there's some fluffy cuteness and flirting, which is always nice, right?
> 
> No warnings again, my dears :D Just wait, they're coming. The soft and mellow will end. Heartbreak is to come. But for now, enjoy the build up so that I may have bunches of plot ;)

_"You call it hope -- that fire of fire!_   
_It is but the agony of desire."_   
_\- Edgar Allan Poe, Tamerlane_

* * *

 

“Rise and shine, lady and gentlemen.”

I parted my eyelids at John’s partially muffled yet alert voice, though I had not had a second of sleep last night. I sat up slowly, swinging my legs over the side of the cot. My eyes swept the room before I had even fully straightened, taking in the sight of the soldiers as they came into their conscious minds.

Lestrade was not in the room, which I had already known. I had kept a clear count of who was posted on watch and how long everyone was up on the roof with their automatic rifle as their only company. Donovan had been the third to go, after Anderson had climbed down – rather loudly – to wake her up. Then it was John, and lastly Lestrade. Each time, the person on watch came down to wake up the next person, and each time I cringed at the lack of sense they executed by leaving the house unprotected for a valuable count of seconds.

The tantalising aroma of coffee pulled me completely off of the cot and into the next room. I followed the smell until it deposited me into an abandoned kitchen, empty except for John. He looked a little ragged, still in need of a shave yet this morning. His hair was a ruffled mess, sticking up at all ends. But when he turned to me, his eyes were alert and there was a gentle smile on his face.

He handed me a cup with dark liquid, steam swirling from the top. He made an apologetic face, shrugging his shoulders as he lifted his own mug and took a sip. “It’s not the greatest. It’s actually a bit like drinking coffee with three shots of rum in it, but it’s a hell of a good way to get your blood flowing and wake you up on an early morning.”

“Can’t be that bad.” I took a sip and sputtered, nearly spitting it out.

John laughed, setting his mug down so that he would not spill on himself.

Clearing my throat, I raised an eyebrow at the ‘coffee’ in the mug I held. “I stand corrected.”

“You’ll get used to it,” John assured me, taking a drink of his own. “I’ve actually become addicted to it. Have to have a cup every morning.”

His eyes flickered to a point over my shoulder, and I turned to see Donovan walk in, graciously taking the mug that John handed to her.

“Hope you slept well, Holmes,” she said, her eyes skimming the length of my body. “It’s a bit high-alert out there.” She nodded with her head behind me, indicating the direction we would be travelling today – towards the mountains and the terrorists that my brother wanted out of this equation so badly.

“Stop trying to scare him, Donovan,” John said, moving aside as Dimmock came in and took some of the potent coffee.

I shook my head, taking another sip. “I didn’t sleep a wink,” I assured her with a smirk, which only made her roll her eyes and walk from the room.

Anderson stared after her as she passed him, but he ignored her and walked towards the steaming cups of coffee.

“Could you take one up to Greg?” John asked, leaning back against the counter and crossing his legs.

“Sure. Should he come down?” Anderson asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

John nodded wordlessly, and Anderson left the room.

With a long, withering sigh, John set his mug down for a moment and ran both of his hands down his face. He looked years older for a handful of seconds, age lines creasing around his eyes. “Wonder when the boys dropped off the Vector,” he muttered, wisely dropping any subject revolving around Donovan.

“An hour ago,” I said, tipping back my mug and forcing down a sip of the abnormally strong liquid. I shrugged at John’s blankly curious expression. “I already told you; I didn’t sleep last night.”

Dimmock chuckled to my left, cupping his coffee with both hands. “Couldn’t get comfortable? ‘Cause it’s not going to get any better out there.”

I blew a small puff of air through my nose and rolled my eyes, leaning my hips against the counter. Folding my arms over my chest, I assessed the Staff Sergeant quickly, taking in his ragged morning appearance. “I never sleep while I’m on a case. Nor do I eat.”

John stared at me in mild horror, the doctor part of his persona kicking in. “Why on earth not?” he demanded, his voice clearly implying that I was two or three shades of crazy.

Shrugging, I shifted my weight to my right foot, propping my left on the counter behind me. “Sleep is distracting and takes time away from the case. And digestion slows me down. So I do neither. What?” I asked, wishing he would stop looking at me like that.

As if sensing my thoughts, he dropped his gaze, shuffling his feet. “Sorry. It’s just… that’s not healthy.”

I scoffed, waving a dismissive hand at him as I picked up my mug again, drinking faster now that the thick liquid had cooled.

Dimmock snorted. “Don’t mind him, Mr Holmes. He likes to take care of people,” the younger man explained, setting his empty mug down. He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m going to go clean up. Want me to drag Anderson along with me?”

John gave a curt nod and a small “please,” and the soldier left.

It was just John and me in the kitchen again, the silence a palpable thing between us. I wanted to fill the silence, to – strangely enough – apologise for not sleeping last night, but that felt like a betrayal to myself and to whom I had always been. So I said nothing, continuing to drink my coffee, and John did the same.

“Look,” the Captain finally sighed, after I had set my mug down and was prepared to leave the room, “it’s none of my business what you do with your body –”

The hand gesture he waved at me and his words sent a chill up my spine, one that I was not entirely sure I understood. I had only just met this man, surely I was not attracted to him.

“– but, while you’re in my care and we’re in the desert hunting down terrorists, you’re eating. Sleep I can’t and won’t enforce, because, honestly, if you push yourself far enough, you’ll pass out on your own for at least a couple of hours.” He scrubbed his hand across his jaw, pushing away from the counter and tipping back the last dregs of his coffee. “But I can and will make you eat. Just sitting around out here, dressed up in your gear, will make you burn calories, and I’m not having you faint on me.”

He walked forward until he was merely a pace away, staring up at me with his jaw set. “And if you fight me on this, I will ship your sorry arse back to London.”

I narrowed my eyes on John, knowing immediately that he was not lying and wondering why my safety was more important to him than potentially catching a terrorist.

“Why?” I asked, needing to know.

All of the tension seemed to melt away from the soldier before me, leaving him looking the proper age and at least a little happier. He lowered his head, shaking it in what seemed to be disbelief. “Deduce it for yourself, Sherlock,” he told me before walking from the room.

I stared after him until he disappeared. Giving an annoyed and highly frustrated sound, I ruffled both of my hands through my hair, wishing the action would dust away the loose and distracting thoughts that were rattling around in my mind.

“Planning on standing around all day?”

Peeking an eye open, I followed Lestrade as he came into the room to fill up his coffee mug. Aside from John, he looked the most alert of the soldiers. His salt-and-pepper hair was windblown, but not messy, and there was a subtle windburn on his cheeks.

“Not at all. Just thinking,” I replied, dropping my hands from my hair with a long breath. “Unsuccessfully.”

Lestrade brought his now full mug up to his lip and took a sip. “Well, since you’re not having luck with that, perhaps you should go change,” he suggested, gesturing behind me with his mug. “Won’t be long ‘til we’re leaving, so you best be ready. Change your trousers into the camo ones, but leave your shirt alone. Transfer everything you had in your pockets into your camo trousers, double-check your pack for your rations, things like that.”

I nodded, internally thankful for the advice the older man was giving me. Without a word, I departed from the room, taking the quickest route back to my cot. I quickly changed trousers, finding the camouflage much more form-fitting. They were by no rights skin tight, but it was a different movement, and one that I was not entirely sure I was comfortable with.

As I turned to sit down so that I could pull my boots back on, I caught sight of a figure in the doorway, frozen just this side of it.

John cleared his throat, ducking his head and stepping further into the room. “Bit different fit, aren’t they?” he asked, taking a seat on the edge of his cot and pulling out a camouflage rucksack.

I noticed he was in his camouflage trousers as well.

“A bit different, yeah,” I conceded, tugging on my boots and lacing them up. “Not too bad though.” Taking John’s lead, I studiously avoided to mention that he had most likely been staring at me, and I refused to ask how long he had been standing there.

John nodded again, pulling a tan t-shirt from the depths of his rucksack, followed by the button-up camouflage top. Wordlessly, and without glancing at me, he tugged the white t-shirt off of his shoulders, trading it quickly for the tight tan cotton.

I allowed myself only a glance, but that was really all I needed to feed my imagination with highly unwanted images. All of his skin was tan, or at least more tan than mine. Obviously, the darker skin was concentrated on his hands, face, and neck due to sun exposure, but he was by no means pale.

Muscle. Yes, obvious and quite prominent. He was not young anymore, but he had not let himself go like most near-forty-year-olds had. He took care of his body so that he could take care of his team.

There had been a black mark on his right side, just under his ribcage. Thinking back on it, I could quite confidently claim it as a tattoo, though what of, I was not sure. Writing, most definitely; not a design. Too fine, too small –

“Got everything?” John, on his feet now, asked. He had his rucksack on his back, his camouflage shirt, Osprey vest, and Browning holster in his hands.

I stood quickly, grabbing the pack and tossing it over my shoulder, holding the holster in my hand. I nodded briskly, any emotion wiped from my features. “Everything’s in there.”

John’s eyes flickered between mine, and I took a moment to notice that he had shaved – razor, not electric.

“Come on outside with me,” he offered, gesturing with a sideways nod of his head towards the door. “I’ll show you how to run a security check on the Vector. Just… just in case you might have to.”

I narrowed my eyes at the hesitancy in his voice, but I followed him from the room and then the house.

The muted light of five in the morning lit up the side of the buildings and cast the spaces between them into deep blue shadow. The sun was not quite visible yet, and only the colour of the light – white, not orange – gave clearly away that it was a morning.

The street was empty as we crossed it, the only sounds of life coming from at least the other side of the alleyway, if not farther off. It was odd, after coming off of a jet from London, to look around and see buildings but no people.

John pulled open the dropdown door in the far rear of the large vehicle that had been swapped for the Land Rover last night. Inside was a converted cargo area, seats now lining the sides instead of supplies.

A quick glance around gave me a good idea how long they were expecting to be out here. Two tanks of gas were stuffed into the far corner. Two boxes of rations and five boxes of bottled water stacked up together against the opposite wall. A small container of ammunition was stuffed underneath one of the seats.

With the grace of someone twenty years younger than him, John jumped up into the Vector, holding his hand down to me. “Pass me up your things.”

I rolled my eyes, jumping up alongside of him. “I’m perfectly capable,” I replied, setting my pack and holster down on one of the seats.

John released an insufferable sigh, one that made me smirk, before mirroring my efforts. “Alright then, come on if you’re so capable. Help me out with the check.” He jumped down to the ground, and I followed without complaint.

John, after leading me around to the side of the vehicle, dropped down to the ground and crawled under the belly of the Vector, rolling over onto his back. “Going to join me?” he asked, his voice muffled by the layers of metal between us.

“You’re checking for bombs and compromises in the gas, oil, and brake lines. I think you have it covered,” I replied, crossing my arms loosely over my chest and leaning my shoulder against the side of the vehicle.

“Alright, you show-off. Make me do all the work, then.” The words out of context sounded harsh and judgmental, but John was chuckling, and the pleasant noise made me smile.

A few moments of silence passed before John spoke up again, shuffling a few inches over to the right, closer to the fuel lines. “So, who’s waiting for you to return home in one piece? Girlfriend?”

I raised my eyebrow, letting the shock of that question flit across my features. I laughed at the ridiculousness of the notion, and John must have heard because he made a small huff.

“Alright, fine. No girlfriend. Boyfriend, then?”

_Persistent._

“No, John, that’s not…” I kicked my toe at the ground at the frustration of not being able to find the right words. “I’ve got no one waiting for me except my landlady.”

The sounds that accompanied John fiddling around with the workings of the vehicle came to a halt at the same time the small amount of movement I had been watching in John’s legs did. “What, no friends? Family? Nothing?”

I snorted rather inelegantly. “I don’t have friends. In case it’s slipped your notice, I don’t have the most personable of personalities.”

There was a conceding grunt from under the vehicle.

“As for my family… well, Mycroft’s the only one who even knows I’m over here, and he’s the one who sent me to this godforsaken desert, so I doubt he’s eagerly awaiting my return. Just my pinpointing these terrorists and cleaning up messes he refuses to get involved in.”

John slipped out from under the Vector, his hand holding on to the running board as he gazed up at me. “So you have no one?”

I did not need the pity in his eyes, so I turned away, heading for the front of the supply truck and popping open the hood. “I told you, I’ve got my landlady. She’s more like a mother to me than anything, so that’s enough for me.”

John slid up beside me, pulling himself up onto the wing and leaning half into the engine of the vehicle. “Well, you know I’ve got a sister,” he started, tinkering around in the rear of the chasse. “She hasn’t got the time to miss me, which is why I never go visit her. My mum died when I was seventeen. My dad and I tried to do right by Harry, but she had already started drinking by then and that only made her worse.”

I remained silent, already able to see where this was going.

“I haven’t talked to her since… God, since I left, but I write her a letter every so often. She never writes back – too drunk to, I imagine.”

“And your father?” I asked quietly, though I could already guess. I hated to admit to myself that I enjoyed listening to John talk, no matter what he was talking about.

John cleared his throat, leaning back a little and looking at his hands. “He –”

“Captain, we’re ready when you are.”

I flicked my gaze sideways, taking in the other four soldiers – all dressed the same as John and myself with packs over their shoulders – as they trooped closer to the vehicle. Donovan and Anderson split off from Dimmock and Lestrade, walking towards the front of the vehicle.

John jumped down and closed the hood, nudging me in the side and walking away. I followed, but not before meeting Donovan’s gaze as she pulled herself up into the driver’s seat. Her eyes narrowed when they met mine, and I returned the gesture.

“Freak,” she muttered.

My eyes flashed at the comment, but before I could reply, her door had been slammed shut.

“Sherlock.”

I turned around to see John standing near the rear of the truck, looking at me with his head tilted to the side. I quickly wiped all emotion from my face, walking towards him with purpose in my step.

He put a hand on my shoulder before I could pass, and I resisted the strong urge to defend myself and shrug it off. “Everything alright?” he asked quietly.

I nodded curtly. “Of course.”

I pulled myself up into the cargo hold-turned passenger area before John could stop me again and delay our departure even further. Lestrade smiled kindly at me and gestured to the seat beside him, which I took as gracefully as I thought was possible. The slam of the door told me that John had finally joined us, and he called up for Donovan to get going.

I watched, intrigued, as the Captain moved towards the front of the modified cargo area, crouching down on the balls of his feet, his hand placed on the seat to steady himself as he reached underneath it.

“May as well hand him the file, Lestrade,” John instructed, hauling out a large green box by its handle.

“Where is it, sir?”

“My pack, front pocket.” He unclipped four clasps along the front of the container, pushing open the lid to reveal the device underneath.

_Oh_.

I nodded minutely to myself as my thoughts were confirmed.

Lestrade stood from his seat, walking on unsteady feet to the opposite side of the vehicle. The Vector gave a sudden jerk sideways, toppling Lestrade into the seats and causing John to lose his balance and fall on his hip.

“Dammit, Sally!” Lestrade yelled, pushing himself back to his feet as the vehicle straightened out. “I’m getting too old for your reckless driving.”

“No one ever said you couldn’t drive, Greg,” was the answering call, to which the Warrant Officer smirked.

“That’s enough out of both of you,” John chided, flipping switches on the VHF radio in the box before him.

Lestrade chuckled, fishing a manila envelope out of John’s rucksack, and made his way back over to me. “Here,” he said, handing the envelope off to me, “this is everything we know about them.”

I tipped the contents of the envelope out into my hand, staring down at the three pieces of paper. “This is it? You have nothing else?”

Dejectedly, Lestrade shook his head.

On the other side of the hold, John murmured something into the radio’s speaker about us departing.

_‘Copy that. Operation Detox underway.’_

I narrowed my eyes at the scratchy reply, but I did not have time to analyse it completely before Lestrade was addressing me again.

“They started three months ago, hitting the outer limits of the city, always leaving at least one dead body in their wake. Mutilated the corpses in some way. We found three people skinned, five burned, and most looked like they had undergone torture. After a week, they started leaving a calling card.”

He gestured at the papers in my hands and I complied by flipping through them. The last page contained three photographs, none of the highest quality. He tapped the first one, and his gaze as he stared at it was bitter.

I studied the photo closer, taking in the lines of the graffiti to see if I could glean anything from it about its creator. But without being there in person, there was nothing much to be told except the basics.

“They’re calling themselves ‘Spyder,’ which is leading us to believe that they’re not in association with al-Qaeda.”

“It is not wise to make assumptions, Warrant Officer,” I chastised, my voice a mere murmur as I ruffled back through the other two pieces of paper, my eyes skimming the text. “Though in this case, you would be correct.

“The design of this,” I gestured at the picture of the graffiti, “suggests that the person who painted it was following a pattern. I’m assuming all of the others looked exactly like this one and that’s why there’s only the one photo?”

“Yeah,” Dimmock spoke up for the first time since we had climbed into the vehicle, “we got so used to seeing them that eventually they just faded into the background.”

I nodded, though internally I was rolling my eyes at their lack of observation. “Then he was definitely following a pattern. And I would assume that if I had photos of the others, they would get less and less sloppy as they progressed.”

“He?” John asked, rising from the floor and taking his seat.

I let out a short sigh. “Yes, he. Obvious in the mistakes. A woman who was following a pattern would have flared up into points after each line,” I demonstrated an arching gesture with my hand, “but a man would stop bluntly, often resulting in the loss of a point, as you can see here, here, and here.

“And when you put that together with the fact that they’re a terrorist group, one can only conclude that female involvement is minimal, if not completely non-existent.”

There was a shared look between Lestrade and Dimmock, the latter of whom then raised his eyebrows at John, who merely shrugged.

I smirked.

“Well, that was… different,” Lestrade offered. He cleared his throat and pointed at the last two photographs. “Anyway, these are the leaders. At least, that’s what we’ve gleaned from our sources.”

“Reliable sources?” I asked as I studied the profiles of the two men.

One was older, crew cut hair, stubble, flat green eyes. From what I could see of his shoulders in the picture, they were broad and well-built. There was a thick scar on his neck that he was quite obviously proud of.

The other picture was from far away and pixilated. He was approximately 5’8” tall, perhaps just a bit taller, dark hair – could be either brown or black, impossible to tell from this photo – and he was dressed in a suit.

I narrowed my eyes.

_A suit in the desert._

“They’re the sources that gave us the locations.”

I glanced up at John, implications of torture in his voice. “Reliable enough, then.”

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Sorry about the quality of the last; we can’t get any closer to him. The first guy was on record, so we had his mug shot.”

“Probably a good thing,” I told him, shuffling the papers back into the envelope. “Tell me,” I turned to John, but my question was for all of them, “which of these two men scares you the most? Which one would you least like to meet in an alleyway?”

All three, after looking uncomfortable, answered with the first man.

“Wrong.”

I shook my head slowly, handing the enveloped back over to John.

“He’s muscle, yeah. Good with a gun and more than likely a knife as well. A killer. Sneak up behind you and snap your neck. When he’s alone, that is.

“The other man, he’s, well, different. The suit alone told me legions about him. Doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, doesn’t go out in the field, and he commands it all. The suit gives him a sense of power, a physical representation that is really not needed. He’s creative and crafty, and he would torture you for days before slitting your throat and leaving you to drown in your own blood.”

Silence hung over the four of us as we transitioned from the small roads and alleyways to the highway – the increase in speed and the sound the tires made against the asphalt giving it away.

“Right. So, basically what you’re saying,” Dimmock leaned forward slightly, his elbows on his knees, “is to always have our guns out and loaded?”

“And preferably walk in teams of two or more.”

“Even if we have to go take a piss?”

“A very distasteful choice of words, but yes, even then.”

“Well, none of you are coming with me when I have to go to the loo,” Donovan cast over her shoulder. “Sorry, boys.”

I rolled my eyes, shifting back on my seat and resting my head against the side of the hold and slipping my eyelids closed.

“That night of no sleep catching up with you?” John’s voice drifted over to me, a hint of ‘I told you so’ in his tone.

“Not at all,” I answered, opening my eyes to pin him with a look. “I’m thinking. And it’s easier to think if I’m not being overloaded by visual information.” When he didn’t respond, I closed my eyes again and tried to block out the meaningless chatter of the people around me.

The task was easier said than done, but once I was firmly blocked into my mind, I was able to sink through a fair amount of information. I threw out all of my feelings and emotions since arriving in Afghanistan – the heat, the emptiness, the expectations – except for those involving Captain John Watson. Those I stored in a locked box in the far corner of my consciousness.

I kept track of our travels, marking out in my mind what roads we were taking to get to the location. We banked off of the highway after roughly twenty-five kilometres – it was hard to gauge distance if I didn’t have a definite speed to go off of – and started heading almost due north. The goings were slower now, but that was preferable seeing as the road was not in the best condition – cracked tar in some spots and gravel in others. Uncomfortable to say the least.

_‘Base to Fusiliers.’_

I pulled myself out of my mind, my eyelids parting in time to see John lower himself to the floor and pick up the transmitting end of the radio.

“This is Captain Watson, go ahead.”

_‘Confirmed three heat signatures. Proceed with caution.’_

“Understood. Thanks for the heads up.”

John climbed back into his seat, and, at my raised eyebrows, gave a long sigh. “Last week we sent a drone out to scan the area and it picked up on heat signatures in the house. Since we’re not _complete_ idiots, we sent it out again this morning.”

I nodded in acknowledgement, returning the smirk he threw at me.

“Anderson! How far out are we?” John called up front, twisting in his seat to direct his voice better.

“Um,” the Lance Corporal seemed to be shuffling around, either looking at a map or looking _for_ a map. “Five kilometres, sir.”

“Donovan, pull over when we’re two kilometres out and hide this beast among some rocks if you can.”

“Sir?”

“Problem?”

“We’re just going to leave it unguarded, Captain?”

John smirked, standing up and zipping open his rucksack, pulling out his camouflage shirt. He gestured for the rest of us to do the same, and we all instantly stood up to follow his lead.

“Unless you would like to alert the three people inside of the house that we’re coming?”

Donovan made a small irritated noise in the back of her throat that carried back to my ears. “No, sir.”

John did not comment further, shrugging the camouflage over his shoulders and buttoning it up above the collar of his t-shirt. The Osprey bulletproof vest followed, which Dimmock helped him with, and John in turn helped the Staff Sergeant.

I eyed the white patch with the red cross on John’s sleeve, the one that claimed him as a doctor.

“Isn’t that a safety issue?” I asked as I finished buttoning my own shirt, nodding at the white fabric that stood out in stark contrast to the desert colors of the rest of his clothes.

John shook his head, fixing his PRR to his ear and clipping the radio portion of it to the front of his vest. “It’s a calculated risk.” When his eyes met mine, I could see that he thought it was well worth it.

I slipped on the Osprey body armour, Lestrade stepping forward and doing up the straps, showing me how to do it so that I could return the favour to him.

By the time Donovan had the Vector parked with the engine shut off, we were all ready.

“Alright, holsters on,” John instructed, casting his glance at Donovan and Anderson as they climbed into the back to pull on their gear.

“We’re going to walk there in two lines, and your line is your group. If we get under fire, you stay with your group, don’t branch off with the others, got it?” John instructed as we buckled on our holsters.

Everyone nodded.

“I’ll be leading one line. Holmes and Dimmock, you’re with me. Lestrade, you take Anderson and Donovan.

“Keep your radios all tuned to channel Alpha Bravo One. Stay calm, stay quiet. The sun is not working in our favour this morning if they’re hiding in the mountains.”

He paused to look around at us, his eyes pausing on me with a question in their depths.

I blinked slowly, trying to convey my answer to him.

“What’s my first rule of engagement?” John asked suddenly, sweeping his gaze around at his team.

“Only dead men don’t back down,” they all chorused.

I raised my eyebrow, intrigued that John had taught them all that line. It was rather fitting for an infantry group, I had to admit.

Not so much so for John.

“Alright then, let’s go.” 

* * *

_"For all we seek to know is known,_   
_And all we seek to keep hath flown --"_   
_\- Edgar Allan Poe, Tamerlane_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so very much for all of the lovely comments. Again, they really do mean a lot :) 
> 
> This is only the third installment of what is looking to be a lengthily fic, so for those of you who are reading this and keeping up as I post, thank you, I love you, you are so flipping awesome. :D :D
> 
> Oh, hey, btw. If any of you lovely talented and amazing people decide that you want to draw anything based off of this, let me know, because I'll link it into the scene that it takes place in and post it on my tumblr page for all others to see. 
> 
> Again, I love you all, and I hope this chapter wasn't horribly boring. I promise some very, uhm, GOOD things next chapter ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, John, and the team show up at the first location that could possibly host Spyder. Sherlock tries to show off, and he ends up missing a few details, but John is still impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back for this new addition :) I love you all for continuing to check in on me and my story. It really means a lot guys.
> 
> Anyways, warning for this chapter: explosions, tense situations, dead bodies, burning bodies, and then there's a little treat for you guys at the end.
> 
> Enjoy, loves :)

_“Death was in that poisonous wave,_   
_And in its gulf a fitting grave."_   
_\- Edgar Allan Poe, The Lake: To _____

* * *

 

The air was different out here compared to the city of Kabul – even the edge of it.

Around the buildings in the early morning, the cold from the night still hovered, encased me like a tomb that had not been opened in years. But out here, just shy of the mountain’s shadow, with the sun pounding down onto heavy camouflage and body armour, I felt like I was being roasted.

Stepping outside had been like hitting a physical wall, all of the air in my lungs struggling to keep up with the extreme temperature difference between the inside of the Vector and the desert world I had been dumped into.

“Alright there, Mr Holmes?”

I glanced up at Dimmock, who was running through a check on his L85A2 assault rifle, same as the others. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

The younger soldier shrugged, pinning me with dark eyes looking up under thin lashes.

“First mission and all…” he trailed off, shrugging again and sliding the safety off on the rifle. “Most people get nervous, anxious… some get excited.”

I could tell easily that he disliked and distrusted people who were eager for gun use, for violence. I also knew that around eighty percent of the British military was made up of trigger happy young men.

I snorted softly, my peripheral vision picking up on John looking over at me, still running a check on his L129A1 DMR. “Well, Staff Sergeant, I’m not the Commonwealth.”

“Okay, ladies,” John called our attention, his voice coming through the radio and through the open air simultaneously. The delay was a bit disorientating.

“Stay in your groups. I’m going to take the way nearest to the mountain, so, Lestrade, you have a better shooting angle. I want you lot fifteen metres away and a few steps behind us. You two,” John turned to point at Dimmock and me, “the walking distance between the three of us is five feet. Don’t break it.”

I nodded briskly, saw Dimmock do the same.

“Alright then.” John nodded at all of us before he jerked his head sideways and started walking. His DMR was raised to shoulder level, turning with him as he scanned our surroundings, always in constant, straight-backed motion.

I had the innate urge to duck down, to walk in a crouch. Just the knowledge that we were being watched – and the statistical likelihood of that fact – had me on edge. I reached down to my thigh, un-holstering my SIG and holding it against my leg, pointed at the ground by my feet. It was reassurance – the knowledge that, if I needed to, I would be able to defend myself.

Even if I knew that a nine millimetre handgun was no match for a fifty calibre sniper rifle.

The mountain was a mass of rock – an odd colour between blue and orange in the shadow it cast – off on my right, rising up to a jagged edge. A poet would have said it was reaching for the sun. I was never much of a poet; no time for emotions, and what was a poem if not a written form of the author’s emotions.

_You play the violin_.

_Not the same._

I shook myself mentally, knowing this was not the time to get lost in my thoughts. A quick glance to my left showed Lestrade leading Donovan and Anderson, the latter cluttered much too close to the former.

_Idiot._ He was going to get them killed. He was going to get us all killed.

I made a mental note to ask John why he hadn’t traded the incompetent young man off yet. Another mental note was made to question the doctor about his team placement.

“How’s everyone doing?”

John’s voice. I could not hear him through the air this time; the wind had come up, seemingly out of nowhere, in a sudden gust that blew stray pieces of sand into my eyes.

Something bumped my bicep, and I looked down to see Dimmock’s hand, a pair of sunglasses in them. Glancing up at him, I saw him wearing a pair of wrap-arounds. I took the sunglasses, nodding my thanks before twisting back around.

“Just fine, Captain,” Lestrade replied, his voice scratchy. Distance, apparently, was not beneficial to the PRRs.

Another mental note to ask what their range was.

“Have you seen anything?” John sent back.

There was a pause before we were granted a reply. “Nothing yet, sir. Hoping that it stays that way.”

“Copy that, Warrant Officer.”

There was not a signal from John or a click on the radio that officially ended the conversation, but it was evident that any other conversation was strictly forbidden.

“How close?” I asked, never having been one to follow the rules.

“Donovan?” John questioned.

There was a sigh, followed by, “Little less than a kilometre, sir.”

John looked over his shoulder at me, and I saw his eyebrows rise from behind his wrap-arounds. I nodded, smirking when he had turned around.

There was a hill just ahead, nearer the mountain than we were currently. John started angling that way, and I followed, noticing Lestrade and his team beginning to slowly merge our way.

The sand thickened around the base of the incline, making movement go from difficult to the likes of attempting to walk through molasses. I did not voice my difficulties, knowing Donovan was closer, almost beside us, and that she would jeer. I was not sure I could handle another degrading comment today.

Dimmock caught up to me as we made our way up what was practically a sand dune, though he slowed his pace once he was beside me. I rolled my eyes, not needing his kindness, and forced my legs to move faster, though my muscles were burning at that point.

There was a grunt from the soldier beside me as his leg slid out from under him. Reflexively, I reached out with my hand, catching his elbow and hauling him back up.

He clapped me on the back, panting. “Thanks, mate.”

I smiled, nodding at the others who were ahead of us, nearly at the top of the hill. “We should catch up.”

“Oi! Dimmock, Holmes, you two done flirting down there or should we postpone this another five minutes for you?”

Dimmock and I both chuckled at John’s voice in our radios, though I was caught by the slightly different tone he had said it in. Maybe it was the wind, maybe it was because he was breathing hard, perhaps it was because I was delusional with “runner’s high,” but I could have sworn that was… jealousy?

No, I was definitely delusional.

The Staff Sergeant and I crested the hill together, dropping down onto our stomachs like the rest of the team. John was looking through binoculars, though he quickly handed them off to Lestrade. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”

Lestrade took his time looking through the lenses, adjusting the power and the clarity. “Don’t see a damned thing,” he said, passing the binoculars back to John, who only handed them to me.

I raised my eyebrows, but John just sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes, facing forward again. Narrowing my eyes at him, I raised the binoculars, peering through them at the mud brick, one story house. It was tucked into a small divot in the mountainside, only accessible from where we were, protected on the other three sides. I focused the powerful zoom of the binoculars on the windows, trying to pick up on any movement inside.

There.

“Movement,” I said, handing the binoculars back to John, who immediately put them up to his eyes. “Far right window. Curtain fluttering.”

John stared for a long time, the hilltop going silent as he observed. “I saw it,” he finally said, nodding and handing the binoculars back over to Lestrade.

“Oh, for the love of –” I moved to my knees, crawling past John and Dimmock and slowly making my way down the sandy hill.

“Holmes!”

There was suddenly a tug and then a pull on the back of the Osprey vest, and I spun around to see John staring at me with wide eyes, both fear and anger in their depths. “The bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

I shrugged off John’s hold, backing up a little farther and lifting my chin. “I’m going to do what I was sent here to do while you all waste valuable time.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” John snapped, sliding down on his hip to my level. “It’s my job to protect you, so you’re going to listen to me.”

“No,” I told him firmly, pushing to my feet and holding my arms out to my sides. “There’s no one here. Cliffs are empty. Logical positions for hiding behind rocks for an ambush are minimal and inadequate. And the house is empty.”

John stared at me solidly, the confusion written quite plainly on his face. “But you just said…”

“I said there was _movement_ ,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “Christ, you all need to open your eyes and ears. _Observe_.” I turned and walked away, my SIG held firmly in my palm.

“Observe _what_?” John asked, catching up to me with the rest of the team on his heels, their rifles raised at a threat that was not there.

“Tire tracks,” I pointed, “that are hours old. Boot prints that got out of a vehicle, went to the house, and returned. All pairs returned, might I mention. There are only four good sniper posts, as Donovan should have pointed out right away, seeing as she is your typical sniper when you need one.”

That comment earned me a glare, but I barrelled on ahead, walking forward with purpose.

“The only places for a ground strike are there, there, and there. Possibly there, but doubtful.” I made sure to gesture forcefully at each spot, lessening the odds of having to repeat myself.

“But what about –”

“The building, yes. The heat signatures.” I shifted my hold on the gun, pushing my shoulders back as we closed in on the house. “I have my theory about that as well. Just need to enter the house to prove it.”

My peripheral vision picked up on the other four infantry soldiers fanned out around us, Lestrade keeping a bit closer. Part of me was relieved that they did not need to be told what their jobs were – even Anderson seemed to have at least some clue.

John grabbed my arm, pulling me to a halt and stepping in front of me. “We’ll enter the house, fine, but we’re doing it my way. You’re staying in the back and letting us do our jobs.”

“Like _hell_ I am,” I hissed, leaning down closer to John. “You lot will contaminate everything. I need to be the first, and if not the first, then the second person in there or everything will get destroyed. Unless _you_ would like to explain to my brother why I can’t do my bloody job.”

John lifted his chin defiantly at me, though there was a wavering _something_ in the depths of his eyes that I could not quite determine. I just knew that it was not the look of a war-hardened soldier who would do anything to win.

“What do you think is inside of that building, Mr Holmes?” he asked, his voice low and soft, and I finally recognised the look in his eyes. It was fear, and it was well-placed.

I could not help my twisted smile, the smile that bespoke the beginning of a rather fun and intense game. “Bodies, Captain Watson. Bodies.”

John stared at me for a few seconds, though they felt like years with the gravity of the situation around us and with the disbelief heavy in his eyes. Then he reacted, the stiff-backed, square-shouldered Captain coming out into the open. It was a wonderful transformation to witness.

“Donovan! Anderson! Circle around back; watch the windows. Check for a back door, and if you find one, stay there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dimmock!”

“Sir?” The Staff Sergeant’s voice sounded a bit hesitant, as if he was suspecting some horrible job, like climbing up onto the roof or heading back to get the Vector. I wondered how many times he had been sent off to do something unpleasant just because John trusted him to do it and do it right.

“Cover our backs. Stay outside of the house at all times unless I call for you. Keep an eye on the hill.”

John started to approach the house, dragging me along for the first few steps. As if I would not have been right on his heels anyway.

“Alright, Holmes. Here’s how this is going to go down.” John turned to look at me, speaking softly – unnecessary – as we stood just outside of the door. “I’m entering first and you’re going to be on my heels, Lestrade coming in behind you. We’re going to clear the house and then let you get to work. And as soon as you’re done, no matter what is behind that door, we’re rendezvousing back at the Vector.” He paused for a half second before one last, “Everyone got that?”

A collective “yes, sir” ran through my PRR, one that I was not a part of saying.

John gave me a hard look, and, had I been a lesser man, I most likely would have cowered. Instead, I arched an eyebrow, which earned me a heavy sigh and rolled eyes.

Everything suddenly grew quiet, the sort of quiet that feels like a weight – a palpable thing that suffocates anyone it touches. There was no static through the radios, no whisper of the wind through the air. The world narrowed down to just what my eyes could see, and the blood rushing through my veins.

John looked over his shoulder at me one last time, his eyes shining perhaps a little brighter with a mix of excitement and apprehension. Then he turned to Lestrade, counted to three, and kicked down the door.

The silence shattered with the splintering of the wood.

I was right on John’s heels as we converged into the building, and there was so _much_ noise. Breathing. Boot scrapes on the floor. Wind whistling through the cracked windows. Hissing and popping of fire.

I broke formation, sidestepping John into another room.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” he snapped at me, and, even in a whisper, his voice made my steps falter.

But I did not stop. I could not stop. There was something that had to be discovered, had to be seen. A story that had to be told. Something had happened here, was actually _still_ happening here.

My gun was in my hands in a teacup hold and the safety was off, but it was down by my thigh, pointed at the ground. I was not going to need it. I had zero intentions of discharging any bullets today. There was no one to shoot at in this house. Well… no one alive, anyway.

There was a black tarpaulin blocking a doorway, and I threw it back without hesitation, the heat of a fire and the smell of burning flesh hitting me with a force solid enough to knock the wind from me and make me want to gasp for breath. Thankfully, I knew better. I holstered my weapon and covered my nose and mouth with the crook of my arm, stepping farther into the room to peer closer at the bodies – three of them, two male, one female, all under the age of twenty.

“Sherlock, what the f– Oh, bloody hell!” John gagged, wisely turning from the room as he retched around the corner. It did not sound like anything actually came up, though, which was good.

I slowly lowered my arm, having acclimatised to the smell now – as much as a person could, at least. “As a doctor, I thought you would be used to the smell of dead bodies. Even if they happen to be burning,” I commented, turning around to look at the doorway for a moment before returning to the bodies, slightly annoyed that I could not closely examine them because of the fire.

I saw John turn around out of the corner of my eye, noticed the rag tied over his nose and mouth, saw the second rag he was waving at me and dismissed it.

With an irritated and obviously slightly aggravated sigh, John reached up to clear his PRR for a moment. “Lestrade, come in and clear the rest of the house, please. Everyone else, eyes and ears open. It’s a bit of a shit pile in here.”

I refocused on the bodies, tuning out John’s presence and the addition of Lestrade’s clomping footfalls. He called out “clear” every time he swept a room, something I could have told them – actually, I did tell them – before we had even entered the house.

The victims were interesting. Race was impossible, though it was not a large leap to say that they were Afghani. Probably related, though again, not a definite. No, wait. Definite family resemblance between the boys, the girl, who was the oldest, was still an uncertainty. They had been dead a few days, but they had not been burning long, only a handful of… oh…

I glanced over towards the now empty doorway, narrowing my eyes as if I could see through the walls and to the tire tracks in the dirt outside.

How predictably unpredictable.

_Thank you for this, Mycroft_.

“We all good in here?” Lestrade asked, sticking his head in the door and blocking my field of vision, which was, really, only mud brick walls anyway. It was mostly my focus that he had taken away.

Shaking myself mentally, I slowly straightened, turning on the balls of my feet so that I was facing the victims. I gestured Lestrade inside, recognising that John was not in the room any longer.

Part of my mind nagged at me, wondering where he had gone, demanding that I search for him. The other part said to hell with him. I wisely ignored both for now.

“You were raised around New Scotland Yard, yes?” I asked, not bothering explaining how I had come to the deduction. More an observation, really. Letter from his uncle, the Chief Superintendent at NSY at this very moment, keeping this aging soldier updated with all that was going on, illegally informing him of murders and suspects.

Lestrade looked over at me, his eyebrows arched and shoulders straight, but did not argue it.

I gestured towards the three bodies, taking a step forward as I did so. “What’s wrong with this picture, Lestrade?” I asked, sidestepping and again finding myself wishing for my lengthily Belstaff.

“You telling me there’s something right with it?” he gruffed, shifting his weight around a little, keeping his eyes focused mostly on me and not the young people on the hard-packed dirt floor.

I did not dignify his question with an answer. “Look at how they’re placed. They weren’t dragged in here, because there aren’t any marks on the floor to indicate it,” I pointed quickly and then moved on. “There’s no blood and, from what I can tell, no knife or bullet wounds. So how did they get here? Why are they lying on the floor like that?”

Lestrade shrugged, scratching at the corner of his chapped mouth with the tip of a gloved thumb. “Yuh got me there. Dropped ‘em like flour sacks?”

“Very good, Lestrade. Wrong, of course, but good,” I said, a slight smile gracing my lips. I wondered absently if John would have accumulated the correct answer.

_Irrelevant_.

“They were killed here while unconscious. Most likely drugged. Carried in, laid down, and suffocated. Not quick, but efficient.”

“Why the fires?” the Warrant Officer asked, his hands resting loosely on his gun.

I looked over at him as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. “To fool the drone, of course. To bring us out here and off-course. To make us waste a day of travel.”

Lestrade shook his head, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder. “If you’re done, John wants us outside. There’s nothing else here, so he’s going to call in a backup team to clear this place and we’re going to get going to the second site.” He turned to leave, either figuring I would follow or knowing I would. Either way, it was a pretty risky business, turning away from me in a room with dead bodies.

I followed.

Stepping out of the building was no more pleasant than stepping out of the Vector had been earlier in the day. Perhaps it was a _little_ cooler, but the desert did not seem to want to give up her heat, and the mountain’s shadow had long since passed to the other side of the mass of rock.

John and company, minus Lestrade and me, had gathered in a basic attempt at a circle about six metres off of the mud brick house. By the way John was gesturing, I could tell he was either giving instructions or directions. As we neared and I caught a few words, I realised that it was the former.

I blinked a couple of times, and then I also realised that they were all in relaxed positions, hands resting across lax assault rifles.

I was about to bring something up about it – about the fact that just because no one was here _now_ did not mean that someone could not arrive _later_ – when John turned to see us approaching. His expression went from grim to gaunt and slightly stormy.

“What the _hell_ was that?” he asked, pacing up to us – to me, more accurately, because Lestrade had moved off and John was directly in front of me.

I narrowed my eyes, rising to my full height and squaring my shoulders, unsure of exactly where I stood with this argument. “To which _‘that’_ are you referring?” I asked, my voice smooth and cold as ice.

For only 5’6”, John was damn intimidating when he wanted to be. The look he gave me was withering and made me want to go crawl in a hole and lick my metaphorical wounds – though I did not even know what those were at this point.

“You broke pattern! You charged into a room, practically unarmed, unexpectedly, and past a black tarpaulin, no less!” he yelled, the disappointment highly evident in his voice.

I opened my mouth to argue, but he shot me down.

“Do you have a death wish, Mr Holmes?”

“No,” I replied as calmly as possible, once John had taken a breath. “I was doing my job, Captain.”

“And you weren’t allowing me to do mine!” he snapped back.

My eyes narrowed. “I was doing what any of your men would have done. I was clearing the house. I was _not_ going to follow in your shadow as you took your time walking around, checking for enemies that weren’t there!” There, an edge rose in my voice now.

“You passed three rooms that hadn’t been checked yet. You not only broke pattern, you broke protocol, and you endangered yourself and my team.”

“There was no threat!” I yelled.

“There fucking could have been!” John’s tone was just as angry as mine, and just as loud.

Our voices were still bouncing vaguely off the walls of the mountain, the sound muffling what would have otherwise been a deafening silence. John was still staring hard at me, his breathing a little heavy. My gaze was wavering, unable to keep eye contact too long.

Movement at the top of my field of vision caught my attention, and I quickly looked up, noticing the dark shape nestled amongst the red rocks. I narrowed my eyes, catching the glint of sunlight off of something – gun barrel, most likely.

I studied the angle to determine the trajectory – my heart rate was racing much too fast – and ended up throwing a look over my shoulder, staring hard at the house.

_House. Why? Why is he shooting at the house? Nothing to hit, just brick and the roof._

The answer knocked into me like a train.

“Sherlock?” The anger that had been in John’s voice had faded into worry. Enough worry for him to push formalities aside.

“Bomb,” I whispered, and then louder, my voice picking up urgency, “Bomb. There’s a bomb in the house. Everyone get away from it! Find cover!”

The words had not much sooner left my lips than a gunshot rang out, the sharp sound rapidly swallowed by a shockwave and a resounding _boom_.

Arms wrapped around my waist, and I was thrown to the ground, a body pressing half on top of me.

Facing away from the house, I could not see anything, but, Christ, the _noise_. Instinct had me wrapping my hands above my head and tucking my knees up. Something heavy landed on my hip, and I winced, knowing that it would bruise later.

I was not sure how many seconds – minutes? – passed before the body covering me pulled away, and a hand hit my forearm. I uncurled myself, reaching out for the hand and letting myself be pulled up.

I turned away from John, immediately studying the ridge where the shooter had been. But it was too late; he was gone.

“Well, shit,” Dimmock commented, and I glanced over at him, finding him staring at the crumpled building with his hands on his hips.

Debris was scattered on the ground. Bricks, tiles, shards of glass, some pieces reaching much farther than where we had all been taking cover.   

Donovan gave a low whistle. “Bet that bomb was in one of the rooms Holmes didn’t check,” she commented, walking off and kicking at a loose rock.

“Donovan, I checked all of the rooms in that house,” Lestrade said, and I was thankful to have him at my back.

Gratitude was not a feeling I was much accustomed to having.

The female Sergeant did not reply, just walked off farther from the group.

Rolling his eyes, John nodded at Anderson and sent him off after her. The inexperienced soldier was shaking from shock, but at least he had not started screaming or gone into a panic attack yet. So there was some hope for him, at least.

“What now, Captain?” Lestrade asked, voicing the question ringing through all of our minds – though there was really only one logical thing to do.

John sighed. “Let’s rendezvous back at the Vector and then we can –” John’s voice cut as a loud, high-pitched static sound filled the air.

I clapped my hands over my ears, pinching my eyes shut as the noise only grew louder.

_Oh._

Reacting nearly before the thought hit me, I yanked the PRR painfully from my ear, wincing a little, but at least the ringing was gone. I opened my eyes to see that the others had come to the same conclusion I had, if a bit slower.

“The bloody hell was that?” Donovan yelled, pacing back up to us and cupping her ear, which was obviously bleeding.

Strangely enough, I really could not find it in myself to care about her pain.

“Radio disturbance, obviously,” I supplied, letting the earpiece of my radio dangle down in front of me. “Purposeful, no doubt.”

She rolled her eyes, but John cut her off before she could say anything.

“Do you think it affected the VHF Radio back in the Vector?” he asked, looking up at me with all of our previous conversation seemingly forgotten.

 I waved my hand impatiently at the obtuse question. “That’s two kilometres away. Highly doubtful. Most likely impossible.”

John ran a hand down what was visible of his face under his helmet and sunglasses, which was not much. He made a small, slightly disgruntled but mostly noncommittal noise and dropped his hand back to his side.

“Alright. Let’s deal with this, then. Donovan, get up on that hill. I want you scanning those ridges, and shoot anything that moves. Anderson, dig around in the rubble pile. See if you can pull out parts of the bomb, and do try not to get blown up. Dimmock, help him out. Lestrade –”

“Yes, I know, Captain.”

I stiffened, staring at John as he directed work that _I_ should be doing to people who were going to ruin every last bit of evidence that there was. “Captain, I –”

“Mr Holmes, you’re coming with me.”

I narrowed my eyes a little at him. Not five minutes ago he was making an example of me, and now he was hauling me off where I was going to be expected to cover him.

“And just where are we going?” I asked, and perhaps there was a haughty tone in my voice.

“Well, someone has to go get the Vector and contact some backup. Come on.” He walked away before I could argue.

I rolled my eyes, taking off after him until our steps were matched.

We walked around the hill this time, avoiding the deep sand and sticking to the harder, gravel-laden dirt. Our boots crunching on the rocks was the only noise for a long while. John had his assault rifle lifted, and my SIG was in my hand with the safety off, but that was all. The silence became awkward, even for me, but I refused to break it.

It was not until the Vector could be seen, nestled behind a grouping of boulders, that John finally spoke.

“You know, I didn’t mean what I said back there.” He looked over at me, relaxing his posture a little, his shooting arm dropping down a few centimetres. “When I was yelling, I didn’t actually mean it. I was just trying to prove a point to the team.”

I smirked, turning off towards the mountain. “Yes, I know. It was very good acting, Captain.”

“Thanks – wait, you could tell?”

“Don’t worry, nothing outward gave it away. Your eyes did, though. Hard to lie to me, John.” I smiled a little at him, pulling off the sunglasses Dimmock had given me earlier. We were in the shadow of the Vector now; I did not need them.

“My eyes?” John asked, taking his own off and unclipping his water flask from his belt. He took a pull from it, wiping away a small bit that dribbled down his chin, the motion taking some gathered dust off with it. “Want some?” he offered, holding the flask out to me.

Ridiculous notion. I did have my own.

I shook my head, dropping down to the ground and sliding underneath the Vector to start checking it for bombs that could have been left in our absence. Seeing none, I started examining the fuel and brake lines for leaks.

“Yes, John, your eyes,” I said, picking up our conversation again. “When a person is trying to remember something, like a rehearsed conversation, they look up and to the left. You are no exception.”

I slid out from under the vehicle, taking the offered hand and letting John help me to my feet.

He did not let go right away, just stared at me intently for a long moment. Finally, he shook his head, releasing me and walking around to the hood of the Vector. He took his helmet off, probably an unwise choice, but it was one that I quickly mimicked.

The air had cooled remarkably, and the slight breeze felt positively heavenly on my sweat-soaked temples.

I walked over to the front of the vehicle, leaning against the tan metal, and watched John work. Even through the Osprey Body Armour and the slightly baggy camouflage shirt, I could imagine the muscle that was there. I could easily picture the build that I had seen just that morning when John walked in and caught me changing.

“You know,” John started, still diligently working away on the engine; though, I could not possibly imagine what he could be doing. “You’re really quite brilliant. And what you did back at that house…” He paused for a moment, seemingly staring at his hands. “It really _was_ stupid, Sherlock. But that doesn’t make it less impressive.”

I looked up and met his eyes when he turned to look at me. I shrugged nonchalantly and dropped my gaze, kicking distractedly at the wing of the vehicle with the toe of my boot.

“That’s what I do, John. That’s my job. I run towards the bomb, towards the dead bodies, towards the danger. I take risks.”

When I looked back up, I was not sure I liked the look in John’s eyes.

He stepped down off of the wing, closing the distance between us with only one and a half short strides. “Risks, huh?” he asked, and he was so close that I could smell him, could see the flecks of dirt on his face, the clean part where he had wiped the water away, could see the small freckles on his nose and catalogue each brown flare in his eyes that betrayed his central heterochromia.

All of my thoughts were wiped clean when a fist smaller than mine grabbed onto the front of my vest and a pair of chapped lips crashed into mine.

I brought my hands up to cup John’s face, parting my lips because I needed more. I was not disappointed, willingly backing up when John pushed me back against the front of the Vector. Fingers wound into my hair, pulling on it just right.

John slid his tongue against mine, hesitantly tasting and exploring, and I let him, cautiously returning the gesture.

When we parted, it was mutual. John’s hand stayed in my hair, and mine stayed on either side of his neck, my thumbs gently running over his cheeks. I could see his thoughts running behind his eyes, could see the hesitancy and the regret coming forward.

“Don’t,” I whispered, leaning down to capture John’s lips again, not putting much pressure there at all. “Don’t regret this. I don’t.”

John looked like he wanted to say something, but he could not seem to find the words, so he just nodded, carding his hand through my hair. I leaned into the touch while it was there, resting our foreheads together.

“We should get back to the group,” John murmured, looking up at me with wide eyes.

I nodded, though that was the last thing I wanted to do. “Alright.” I kissed him once more, pleased that he returned it, and then walked around to pull myself up into the passenger seat of the Vector.

* * *

_"Yet that terror was not fright_   
_But a tremulous delight--"_   
_\- Edgar Allan Poe, The Lake: To _____

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's small, I know, but I really hope you guys liked this chapter and the ending I left for you. Next chapter is a little more intense, and, well, I'm not going to spoil anything, but I'm writing this three chapters ahead of what I'm posting, and it's getting intense, guys.
> 
> Anyway, I love you all, and every kudo and comment that I get makes me better, so keep them coming, guys. 
> 
> Until next time :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow. Goodness, guys, I'm so sorry. School has been wild and my muse really hasn't been with me. So I'm apologising in advance if all of these chapters start coming really slowly now...
> 
> But anyway...
> 
> Warnings: death, death threats, going into shock, and things get a little bit more intense than last chapter
> 
> Enjoy :)

_"In visions of the darkest night_   
_I have dreamed of joy-departed--"_   
_-Edgar Allan Poe, A Dream_

* * *

 

“Sherlock, open your eyes, please.”

I did not listen to John, continuing to sit on the rock that I had perched myself on several hours ago. I was holding my gun loosely on my lap, my ankles were crossed, and my eyes were closed with my chin tilted up to expose my face to the breeze. I knew that I was the perfect expression of relaxation.

We had been camped out, sitting on post at different ends of the divot in the mountain since John and I had returned nearly five hours ago. It was long past dark, now. And rather cold – I had been shivering before John had approached, and then I had quickly hidden it.

“To what end?” I asked, not heeding John’s request in the slightest. “Lestrade is pacing a two metre line ten metres that way, Dimmock is smoking and leaning against the mountain side forty metres behind me, Anderson is muttering to himself and sitting on the ground over there, his gun in his lap, and Donovan is still on point, looking for snipers, fifty metres to my south.” I pointed at each as I listed them. “I don’t _need_ my eyes, John.”

John sighed. There was a soft rustle of fabric, and a small seeping heat told me that he had taken a seat beside me. “We’re going to have to talk.”

I tensed, not liking those words strung together in that way with that tone.

“About what?” I asked casually, my voice not betraying how my hand had tightened around my gun.

It was not difficult to picture John tensing up beside me, scrubbing his hand over his jaw or maybe scraping his thumb over his lower lip.

“You know what about,” he said quietly, and the tension and nerves and doubt were back in his voice.

Fuck.

Why was he doubting it? He initiated.

I let out a short breath, shifting my position and my hold on my gun before answering. “I’m not exactly sure what you want to talk about, John. There was a kiss that you initiated and that I returned, and then another that I initiated and that you returned.”

“That’s just it, though. I’m not gay.”

I snorted – I could not help it. “Sorry, I know that’s not helping, but, John, that was a _little_ gay.”

I could feel John shrinking up, his muscles bunching as he prepared to leave.

_Damn it all to hell._

“No, John. Stay here, please. I’ll talk.” I waved my hand in the air, wishing again for just _one_ cigarette. “I’m not good at talking – at all – but I’ll try.”

“Alright…” John said, a little hesitantly.

I was quiet for a moment, trying to puzzle through what to say. Too blunt and I would drive him away, but I did not do soft emotion. Or, really, any emotion. I could mimic and fake what I had seen in others, but I did not want to put on a false front to John.

I sighed heavily, realising that I had been silent for far too long.

“Have you ever,” I started, turning towards him and peeling my eyes open, “and I mean _ever_ , looked at a male and found him attractive.”

John furrowed his brow at me, his eyes a bit brighter than what they normally would have been, what with the moonlight shining on them. “Well, yeah, quite a few times. But that’s normal, right? I’ve never looked at a guy before and wanted to kiss him.”

I rolled my eyes. “John, what even _is_ normal? Honestly.”

He stared blankly at me, a helpless expression on his face.

Christ, I was going to be a goner if he kept using that soft-edged look on me.

“John…” I sighed. “Look, sexuality is not always black and white.” I cringed internally. I sounded like my mother when she had given Mycroft and me a very uncomfortable talk. “You’re probably either bisexual or bi-curious.”

John opened his mouth, taking a breath as if to respond – most likely to argue – but I held up my hand, cutting him off.

“Sherlock, you said you would talk,” he huffed.

“No, John, seriously. Shut up.” I shifted forward, tensing again. My ankles uncrossed and my hand flexed around my gun.

“What?” John whispered, mimicking my position, setting down his assault rifle and trading it for his Browning.

I put my finger up to my lips, silently requesting that John be quiet. At his disgruntled noise of protest, I made a quick series of hand signals, telling him the basics of what I heard.

_Three hundred yards. Enemy gunman. Pistol or rifle, maybe both._

Beside me, John made the _I understand_ hand signal and then stood, waving me up with him.

I was already on my feet, taking off towards the mountain.

John swore, but his boots crunched softly behind me, assuring me that I was going in with at least some backup.

One hundred yards in, and I was surrounded by towering boulders, casting deep shadows around me. I slowed my steps, my pounding heart loud in my ears. I had a quick, desperate thought for my helmet back on the rock I had been sitting on, but then I forgot about it, focusing on what I was doing.

Footsteps behind me, but they were familiar. John.

Another hundred yards, and I was starting to get jumpy. John’s steps had slowed behind me, perhaps mirroring the decreased tempo of my own.

Yes, that was exactly what he was doing, I realised. I almost could not detect John’s steps with how accurately they were slotting together with the crunch of my own.

Metal click. Pressure on my temple.

I froze, listening to the soft breathing of the man beside me in the otherwise silent night.

 _Otherwise silent_. Where had John gone?

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man rasped, reaching out and taking my gun from me. I let it go without a fight. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard lovely things about you. Read your website. Proper genius, you are.”

I did not respond, too focused on the press of the gun barrel to my head.

It was a large calibre handgun. Probably a .45, though it was a bit difficult to tell. I just knew that it was very, very real.

“Oh, you read my website, did you?” I finally managed to ask, trying to buy time. For what, I did not know.

For my life, most likely.

“I’ve heard it’s a terribly dull read.”

The man gave a soft chuckle, shifting his hand on the gun for a better hold, a better angle.

“Well,” he said, “it was a bit dull, but it doesn’t really matter much anymore anyway, does it?”

“And why is that?” I asked, trying to sound interested and bored at the same time, and somehow managing.

I did not receive an answer to that, but I really did not need one – not when there was a gun pressed up against my temple.

“The Spider sends his regards.”

I tensed.

Gunshot. Loud.

I cringed, flinging away from the man who had been holding me, but he was already on his back on the ground. A pool of blood was slowly spreading from a central point in his shoulder. Subclavian artery. Crack shot.

 _John_.

I turned around and found him staring at me from the shadows of another boulder. He stepped forward, holstering his gun and yanking mine from the dead man’s hand. He handed it back over to me, and I quickly turned the safety on and holstered it, not trusting it in my slightly trembling hands.

“That was a good shot,” I commented, smirking at John.

He grinned back at me, nodding a little. “It was, wasn’t it?”

“Captain!”

I flinched at the loud, echoing call that seemed to have come from the direction of the base. A hand settled on my shoulder and squeezed reassuringly.

“Pretend to be in shock,” John murmured in my ear before stepping away. “We’re over here!” he called out, and the directions were immediately met by rapid footfalls.

I obeyed John immediately, backing up against a rock and placing my hands on my knees. John crouched down in front of me, tilting my chin up and asking me to follow the tip of his finger. It was all for show, and we both knew it, but some part of my mind nagged that John was actually running a legitimate check on me, making sure I was not in shock.

Two people trotted around a boulder with their guns raised, and I looked up at them, keeping a slight glaze in my eyes.

John cast a quick glance over his shoulder at Lestrade and Dimmock before returning his attention to me. “We’re alright, lads,” he said, snapping his fingers on either sides on my ears to see how I would respond to it.

“What the hell happened?” Lestrade asked, staring down at the body – white male, mid-sixties, terminally ill with a broken family back in London – with a slightly horrified expression on his face.

“He had a gun to Sherlock’s head, so I shot him,” John explained casually, still entirely focused on me.

The formalities were gone again, and Lestrade had not failed to notice, arching first one and then both of his eyebrows at John.

“They’re not local,” I said, pushing myself into a standing position with a hand on John’s shoulder for support.

“Sherlock, you need to sit down,” John instructed quietly, trying to push me back into my original position.

“What do you mean, ‘they’re not local?’” Lestrade asked, stepping forward. The look he gave me was one of faith, that even in shock – which I was most definitely not experiencing – I would be right.

“Lestrade, not now,” John snapped, his hand increasing its pressure on my chest. “He’s in shock, and he needs to sit his arse down before he can talk about anything.”

I flicked my eyes over to John’s, arguing silently with him, though I knew I was inevitably going to lose. I had to keep acting, because John had asked me to, and he would not have asked me without good reason.

With John’s hand on my upper arm, I lowered myself to the ground, leaning back against the boulder and closing my eyes.

“Can I talk now, Captain?” I asked, putting an edge of bitterness in my tone.

Two fingers pressed against the inside of my wrist, taking my pulse.

“Oh, by all means,” John said, and I felt the air move with what must have been a dramatic wave of his hand.

I gave a lazy smirk, peeling open my eyes to meet Lestrade’s expectant gaze. I sighed, deciding to ignore John as he continued to give me a basic inspection. “They’re not local,” I repeated, gesturing at the dead man. “He said he had read my website, and he’s obviously British.”

“Oh, yes, _obviously_.”

I shot Dimmock a look that quelled his snickering.

“Yes, _obviously_. And he was terminally ill and is divorced with two kids that never speak to him.”

“Sherlock, calm down. Keep your heart rate low,” John murmured, glaring back at the other two soldiers. “Go back to the others, guys. We’ll be right behind you just as soon as I finish this up.”

Lestrade looked like he wanted to argue, but John said, “That’s an order,” and he could not refuse that.

“Come on, kid,” Lestrade murmured, grabbing on to Dimmock’s upper arm and pulling him back to where we had set up our base camp for the night.

John halted his movements as soon as they were out of sight, keeping his hand on my shoulder and closing his eyes as if listening intently. And then he seemed to snap; his eyes popping open, he lunged forward and connected our lips, wrapping his arm behind my neck.

I hummed, setting my hands on his hips and tugging on them. Thankfully, John got the hint, and he immediately swung his leg over my thighs until he was straddling me. I ran my hand up into his hair, tugging on it gently to tilt his head, fitting our lips together better.

He pulled away, his left hand pressed against my chest, his right hand combing gently through my hair. “I thought you were going to die,” he whispered, his voice low and shaking. “I thought I was going to lose your sorry arse.”

I shook my head, cupping John’s cheek and kissing him again, softly this time. “You didn’t. I’m not going anywhere,” I promised, my lips brushing against John’s.

“Good,” he breathed, pressing his lips firmly against mine and slowly sinking his tongue between my parted lips.

I pulled him firmer against me, my fingers quickly undoing the straps of his bulletproof vest so that I could run my hands over his chest, his sides, his stomach. His breath hitched, and I took that as my cue to delve deeper, massaging with my thumbs and kissing him back fully, scraping the very tip of my tongue against his soft palate.

The shiver that raked up John’s body was reward enough for me, encouraging me to do it again.

John finally pulled away, and I growled in agitation. I was not done pulling him apart yet.

He just held up his hand, sucking down a deep breath. “I know, I know. But we need to get back or they’re going to suspect something and come back looking for us,” he explained, tracing the tips of his fingers over my cheekbones and down to outline my lips.

I almost said, _“So?”_ but something in John’s expression stopped me. He was surer of what he was doing, certainly. Apparently surer that this was not “wrong,” but he still seemed… fragile. About this, at the very least.

“Alright,” I agreed with a small huff of air, steadying John as he stood and accepting the hand he offered me.

I quickly redid the straps on his Osprey vest, leaning down to kiss him again, dragging my teeth across his lower lip.

“God, Sherlock… honestly, we’ll never get back if you keep distracting me,” he breathed, his fingers lacing with my own.

“Sorry,” I replied cheekily, squeezing his hand and following as he pulled out his gun and led the way back to the others.

\----------------------------------------------------

My body swayed with the motions of the Vector, my shoulder blade occasionally ramming against the wall of the vehicle.

We were on the road again, running off of little to no sleep. I was not bothered, obviously, but I had seen the wear on the others. John had ordered Lestrade to drive first, giving Donovan a chance to recuperate after being a motionless sniper all night.

She was snoring loudly on the seat opposite me, her head resting on Anderson’s shoulder, who was also fast asleep.

Dimmock was navigating.

“Why do you always put them together?” I asked suddenly, my hushed voice breaking the silence that had overtaken us.

“Hmm?” John hummed, blinking blearily. He had been refusing to fall asleep, but he would get close, just on the verge, and then he would hang there, his body and mind at war with each other.

I nodded across the vehicle at Donovan and Anderson. “Them. Why do you always keep them together?”

“Oh.” John smiled, leaning back and closing his eyes. He slid over a little closer to me, our shoulders barely touching. The nearness felt good, and the fact that he was doing it in front of others felt even better. “Because they love each other,” he replied easily, letting out a soft breath.

I was silent, my gaze flicking back and forth between John and the other two soldiers.

John chuckled quietly, and I turned to look at him, arching my eyebrow in question even though he could not see me.

“If I put them together, they each have a much better chance of staying focused on the mission, not worrying about the other. Plus, it bumps up their reaction rate and protective instincts, which are always good things to have,” John said softly, reaching over to quickly squeeze my hand.

I understood then that that was the reason he was always with me. He was just using the excuse of being the captain as a well-placed cover.

“And,” John added, taking his hand back and setting it in his own lap, “if it were me, and my love got shot, I’d rather be there trying to save them, not twenty metres away with another group.”

I nodded quietly, understanding. “Most people don’t see things the way you do,” I commented, and I hoped he understood that, coming from me, that was high praise.

“No one sees things the way you do,” he shot back, elbowing me in the side.

I chuckled, settling down and absently running my fingertips over the outline of the new knife in my pocket. John had given it to me as soon as we had stumbled back into the divot in the mountain last night, pushing it into my hand with the hushed words, “It’s sharp.”

It was also very well balanced and only had a one-edged blade. Good for throwing, then, as well as close quarter fighting.

“Captain?”

John and I both sat up a bit straighter, John rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, Lestrade. What is it?”

“We’re fifteen kilometres out. Would you like me to stop?” the Warrant Officer asked, decelerating already.

That had been the decision that we had all come to in the very short hours of the morning. We were to take off at seven a.m. and drive down the mountain pass that I had been briefed about back at home. We were going to stop between ten and fifteen kilometres away from the new attack point – what we had been warned was more of a complex than a house – and rest so that we would be as fresh as possible by tomorrow morning.

“Yes, Lestrade. Thanks for asking.” John stifled a yawn, bracing himself a little against the seat as the Vector was steered off the road and pulled to a stop.

“I’ll take first watch,” I offered, reaching over for an assault rifle – Lestrade’s L85A2 – and walking towards the rear door.

“I’ll come with you,” John immediately offered, pushing to his feet.

I pushed him back down with a hand on his chest. “You will not,” I told him firmly but quietly. “You need sleep, or you won’t be able to function. I am wide awake. I can keep an eye and an ear out. But you need your rest; you have a team to lead.” I squeezed his hand quickly before disappearing out of the door.

It was mid-afternoon and hot as the lowest levels of hell.

Well, that was how John had described the open sun heat to me this morning.

I just thought it was exceptionally hot. It made me miss the long cold winters of London, nearly made me ache for them.

Pulling myself up to the edge of the Vector’s roof, I sat down, resting the rifle across my thighs. It was hard to see through the heat waves that were spreading up from the ground, and the direct sunlight was unbearable. But I dealt with it. The others needed sleep, and I did not.

_You are getting soft, starting to care about people you hardly know._

_It is logistics. If they are tired and lagging, then there is a greater chance of my own personal injury or of losing the targets. Or both._

Arguing with myself was a lost cause. I knew the truth, as much as I wanted to deny it.

 _Sentiment_.

The word made me flinch, memories of my parents – namely my father – rising up to the forefront. But, again, I shoved them aside. I could deal with them later.

Later did not come. It never came.

An hour and a half later, Dimmock climbed up with his rifle to relieve me of my position. I nodded briskly, saying a quick thank you before disappearing into the vehicle once again.

Everyone was asleep, Lestrade and Donovan snoring softly, the former sprawled out on his back on the floor.

Shaking my head softly, I stepped around him and sat down beside John, leaning my shoulder just slightly against his.

He hummed, moving closer in his sleep, his hand seeming to instinctively wrapping around my own.

I grinned to myself, resting my head back against the wall of the vehicle and closing my eyes.

Not bisexual, my arse.

\----------------------------------------------------

The moon hung low over our heads as we crept towards the complex at the base of the incline, back to being split into our two teams.

At my insistence, John had given the order to place us on separate radio channels. We were on Alpha Bravo Two, and Lestrade’s group was switched to Charlie Tango Three. It was not much as far as safety precautions went, but it would at least take longer to knock out all of our radios.

John had pushed his L129A1 DMR into my hands before we had taken off, and I had pushed it right back into his. Sure, I could use it, but why would I want to? I trusted him with it more than I trusted myself.

I looked over my shoulder at the Vector as we walked away from it, already missing the warmth that we had left behind for this bitter night chill.

Dimmock softly bumped me, wordlessly urging me to keep going. It was supposed to get warmer the more you moved, was it not?

We were silent as we walked, the fine powdery sand beneath our feet masking any noise that we could have even wanted to make. Which was good, because, half asleep as we were, in any other conditions we most likely would have been able to wake a deaf man.

John halted, holding up his hand for us to do the same. He brought out his binoculars, the night vision lenses switched into them. I knew what he was looking at – seemingly nothing.

The complex was fairly large. At first glance, it almost appeared to be a small village of stone houses, with narrow, winding roads connecting them. I had dismissed that immediately, pointing out sections where the “houses” were connected, showing what appeared to be halls that lead from building to building. My best bet was that this was only a small portion of what the complex actually was. Most of it was probably situated inside of the mountain.

“Alright, change of plan,” John whispered, and I heard him flip his radio over to Charlie Tango Three. “Listen up, guys. I changed my mind.”

_John, no. Stick with the plan. The plan was safe._

Or, at least, as safe as something like this could get.

“There are too many entrances for us to know the right ones, which means that we’re going to have to do some exploring. Silently. Rifles down with the safeties off, and handguns holstered with safeties on. Knives only, alright? Hand to hand.”

I let out a long tense breath, holstering my handgun only when John looked back at me over my shoulder. I watched him switch his radio back over, and then he turned more fully to me, setting a hand on my shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, and the implications in his voice were noticeable. So much so that I would have been rather astounded if Dimmock had not detected them.

I shrugged, brushing off John’s hand with a pointed look. “I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”

I drew the knife John had gifted me with two nights ago, spinning it around between my gloved fingers and nodding at John. I felt and heard Dimmock shift in agitation behind me, and finally John sighed, turning back around.

We started forward slowly, keeping along the edge of the mountain for as long as we could. Lestrade’s group was mirroring us, except twenty paces on our six to ensure that they did not miss any of John’s hand signals.

We were nearly there – close to two hundred metres away – when any semblance of a plan shattered to dust around us.

John froze in front of me, holding up his hand and tapping his fingers to his ear. _Listen_. It was not hard to hear – a high, whistling sound that seemed to be getting louder with every passing second.

“Down!” John yelled, but there was no time. Something sailed over our heads, and I turned to watch as it exploded against the Vector, sending the vehicle up in a mushroom cloud of flames.

Chunks of metal and cogs and gears rained down, embedding themselves into the soft sand beneath our feet, but I did not have time to watch them or to think about what would happen if one hit me. My attention was still caught up in the flames licking at the frame of the cargo vehicle.

“A rocket launcher,” Dimmock muttered, his mouth hanging slack. “They used a bloody rocket launcher.”

I looked over at John, expecting to see him in the same state of shock that the others were in. But I was wrong, as I so often was with John.

There was a fire in his eyes that ran deeper than the flames reflecting from the explosion.

I shook my head at him, my eyes wide. I recognised that look as something that I had seen on myself a rare few times. It was a look of reckless endeavour, and it meant nothing good. “No, John, don’t –”

_Promised. You promised. You made me a promise._

But he just spun around on his heels and took off towards the complex.

“John!” I screamed – no point in being quiet now, because they knew we were here. I tore off after him, barely registering the somewhat organised movements of the others as they came after me.

“Captain, what are you doing!” someone yelled.

“Holmes, freeze!”

I ignored it all, too focused on catching up with John. John, who was more accustomed to running in sand. John, who was slowly drawing away from me. John, who disappeared inside of a doorway.

“John!” I yelled again, drawing my gun and plunging into the dark doorway after him.

* * *

 

_"But a waking dream of life and light_   
_Hath left me broken-hearted."_   
_-Edgar Allan Poe, A Dream_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger!!! You'll love me later, promise :) 
> 
> Well, maybe. We'll see how quickly it gets resolved, yeah? ;)
> 
> Anyway, I live and breathe for the positive things that you guys say, so thank you if you continue to do that. I shall see you with the next chapter!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock follows John into the complex, and he finally discovers the face behind the name that has been haunting him nearly since he came to the desert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: blood, bombs, gunshot wounds, knife wounds... that's about it

_"The blackness of the general Heaven,_   
_That very blackness yet doth fling_   
_Light on lightning's silver wing."_   
_\- Edgar Allan Poe, Introduction_

* * *

 

My pace slowed considerably once I was inside. The darkness was nearly absolute, and it took several long moments for my eyes to adjust. When they finally did, I was still left with seeing only shadows and silver highlights coming in from the few windows placed high up in the walls.

I tapped the ear piece of my PRR. “John?” I whispered, creeping forward with my gun held out in front of me. “John, answer me, damn it.”

There was, of course, a possibility that John had turned his PRR off. I would not be able to tell, no matter how badly I wanted to, because Dimmock’s was undoubtedly still tuned to Alpha Bravo Two, and so long as I was connected to someone, the calls would go through.

_John, why are you doing this? Why now? All they did was blow up the Vector._

I knew that it could have just as easily been one of us, one of his teammates, but it had not been. They had fired a warning shot, they had not taken one of us out. Why was he so upset about it?

_A warning shot._

_Idiot._

God, no, of course it was not a bloody warning shot. They had taken out our transportation, effectively trapping us here.

Making it easier to pick us off one by one.

And John had just handed himself to them, and so had I. Hopefully the others were not as stupid.

“Dimmock,” I whispered into my headset, rounding a corner carefully, my gaze sighted down the barrel of my SIG.

“Holmes, where the fuck are you?”

I flinched a little at the loud voice in my ear, pausing a moment to reorient myself before delving deeper.

“Never mind that,” I breathed, my muscles drawn tight as I slipped farther into unknown territory. “Stay with the others. They’re trying to split us up and pick us off. No need to make it easy for them,” I instructed, pausing as I reached a sunken-in doorway.

I tried the knob. Locked.

I continued forward.

“Well, what the fuck do you call what you’re doing?”

I gritted my teeth, tempted to just turn off my headset, but then I would have no way to contact John if he needed me.

“I’m finding John,” I said, spinning around another corner into another empty hallway. This seemed almost too easy.

“And what the bleeding hell do you think we’re doing?” Dimmock’s voice demanded.

“Distracting me,” I whispered, turning the volume down on the radio and moving to hold my gun in a teacup hold.

Dimmock said something else, but the radio was turned down too low for me to properly make out the words. Good. I needed the focus.

There was a fork in the hallway ahead of me, ten metres. I could continue to go straight, which seemed to be the direction skirting through the majority of the buildings – eventually ending up inside of the mountain, most likely – or I could take the route on the right, which had the appearance of heading more directly into the mountain.

I was still undecided by the time I reached the fork. Would John have known which direction he was heading? Would he have gone directly into the mountain if he _had_ known?

I sighed, rubbing my jaw in frustration.

It only took the one moment of distraction.

A shot fired, and I ducked, spinning my body away from my original position and towards the right hall. My gun was raised immediately, and I sighted down the barrel into the darkness, trying to make out movement – anything to tell me where the shooter was.

A sliver of light along what I assumed to be a doorway just inside of the hall suddenly disappeared, blacked over by something solid, or the shadow of said solid thing. Hoping that this person was not John, and hoping that they were exactly where I thought them to be, I pulled the trigger, letting the recoil pull my wrists and upper arms back towards my body.

There was a sharp grunt and a hiss of pain, and I ran forward, trusting my senses to lead me to where the person was standing.

As I got closer, a few things became evident. One, that this person was a man; two, that he was about twice as muscular as myself and a few inches taller; and three, that even with a bullet wound to his arm, he was managing to aim a gun at me.

I ducked down, rolling myself into a perfectly executed somersault, ignoring the small explosions of gunfire that were sending bullets flying past me. I came up in a low crouch in front of the man, and before he could react, I dislocated his knee, then rose up at the same time that he buckled. My hand fit easily around his mouth, muffling his attempted screams. Knocking his gun out of his hand, I spun around him and wrapped my arm around his neck, flexing around his windpipe.

I knew that he would have killed me if given the chance, but I could not do the same to him. Taking him down had been far too easy, and it did not seem right to kill him in cold blood.

 _Sentiment_.

The man went slowly slack in my arms, and my grip released, only to have him snap back into a fully-functioning state and draw a knife on me.

Damn it.

I had not been counting, and that had not been even two-thirds the time it took for someone of his build to fall unconscious.

I blocked his first strike with my forearm against his wrist, following him back as he pulled away to wind up for another stab with the knife. He was obviously inexperienced. I came up with my other hand, twisting his wrist back until he dropped the knife, and he cried out sharply in pain as a couple of his bones snapped. I caught the knife before it could clatter to the floor, and, without any thought – any _sentiment_ – I thrust it up under his jaw, piercing the long blade through his mouth and undoubtedly into part of his brain.

The fight left his body, and I dropped him, watching in disgust as he slumped to the floor at my feet.

Without caution, I walked over to the gun on the ground – his gun – and picked it up, turning the safety on before sliding it into the waistband of my trousers.

Curling my lip at the man on the ground, I turned away, continuing down the hallway he had come from. It only made logical sense to guard where they did not want me to go.

I heard muffled chatter over the other end of my radio, barely catching the word “location” as I moved down the hallways at a faster pace. The next person that I came across was not expecting me, and I was able to shoot him before he could so much as raise his arm.

It frightened me a little at how easy it was now for me to disengage from my emotions and kill these men. But I did not know them, they were killing innocent people, and they were keeping me from John.

John.

_Where the hell are you?_

I could tell when I had entered the mountain as soon as it happened. The darkness became absolute but for a soft glow ahead – lanterns, obviously – and the cold became bone deep, seeping through my clothes and making my skin crawl with unwarranted shivers. I pushed them down, forcing my body to still as I progressed towards the soft light.

The knife came out of nowhere, embedding itself in my upper arm.

I cursed, immediately raising my arm and shooting. There was a satisfying thud as a body hit the floor, all but boneless in its dying state, but the damage had been done.

Ignoring the loud near-screaming in my ear, I continued forward until I was standing in the light of the lantern. As far as I could see, the hallway ahead was clear, but it looked like it branched into three directions up ahead.

I could handle that in a moment. For now, I needed to get the knife out of my bicep.

After fishing around in my Osprey bulletproof vest for a moment, I drew out a length of medical tape that John had insisted I carry around with me. I had argued, of course, calling it a ridiculous endeavour if I was going to be with John at all times anyway.

John had said to humour him.

I bit my lip and counted to three, yanking out the knife when I reached two. I shoved my fist in my mouth, allowing myself seven seconds of screaming in agony before I got to work, quickly bandaging the wound and then tying a tourniquet. Medical tape alone did not exactly make the best bandaging when it was by itself, but it would have to do.

Gritting my teeth, I did a quick check of my gun. The clip was still mostly full – only three bullets spent – and the casing had so far remained undamaged. Plus, there was the M9 Beretta that I had taken off of the first enemy soldier I had killed, which still harboured all but four of its twelve plus one bullet capacity.

_Okay._

I counted to three and stood, progressing down the hall towards the next lantern. Each of the soft glowing lights was placed ten metres apart, just far enough to leave a completely dark space of about three metres between each one. I hesitated before reaching each of the black areas, knowing how perfect they would be for hiding, but no one ever jumped out of them.

At the split in the hallway, I kept going straight, seeing as no one had attacked me from any direction. It was a logical fallacy, maybe, but it was the only logic that I had.

The muffled sounds and voices in my ear started screaming at me again, and I was about to turn the damned radio off for good when I caught the word “important.”

_You better not be lying to me, Dimmock._

“What?” I snarled, my voice a bare whisper. I continued down the hall as I awaited the Staff Sergeant’s reply, unable to ration giving even a moment’s pause.

“You don’t get to use that fucking tone with me,” was the younger man’s response. “I have been trying to contact you for the last thirty-five minutes –”

Had it really been that long? It felt like only seconds had passed since I had entered the building.

“Get to the point, Dimmock. You said it was important,” I said, my voice only a little kinder as I paused for a moment, having reached a slight hook in the hall.

I took a deep breath, waited a beat, and spun around it, my gun raised. I shot the man who was standing there, the man who had not been expecting me.

“Holmes! What was that? Are you shot? Where are you?”

“Shut up, Dimmock, I’m fine. I was doing the shooting,” I said, reaching down and gathering the man’s knives and handgun, though I really did not need any other weapons. “Now, what was so damned important that you had to distract me?”

There was a deep inhale from the other side of the radio, and a small scratching sound came through the earpiece. Apparently we were reaching the limit of the transmission. I stopping, needing to hear what Dimmock had to say.

“Lestrade just received an SOS signal through his radio. It sounded like John.”

My heart sped up in my chest, my lungs constricting the breath from me. “When? From where?” I asked, needing to know, needing to get there.

“Three minutes ago. The signal came from fifty metres to your north and fifteen and two-thirds metres to your east,” he said, his voice more hesitant. “Don’t go in there guns blazing, Holmes. It’s delicate, please treat it as such.”

I turned down the volume on the radio again, quickly focusing on all of the turns and angles that I had made since entering the building to figure out where I needed to go.

I took off, trusting that the hallway I was running down would straighten out and start going due north again. Gunshots rang out and I shot blindly, not slowing down and not caring enough to take the time to aim. I needed to get to John.

John, who had kissed me before we had taken off early this morning. John, who was so caring about everyone but himself. John, who had taken off blindly into this _bloody_ complex.

More shots, and returned fire of my own. I felt an impact on my vest, but I did not worry about it. It would leave a bad bruise, but nothing more.

Forty-eight metres, and the light around me disappeared. Forty-nine metres, and I barely made out the T-intersection in the hallway. Fifty metres exactly and I spun sharply east.

The hallway was an arrow-straight fifteen metres of barrenness with only one lantern, which was fixed to the wall at the far end, illuminating a solid-looking iron door. I could make out a sliver of light along the bottom edge of the door, telling me immediately that the room beyond was well-lit; and the new handle – obvious in its rust-free appearance even from this distance – said that this room was used often.

This was where I needed to be.

 _John_.

_You better be behind that door._

I immediately decelerated from my near run to a measured walk, taking my time to calculate the shadows. I listened for hidden breaths in the darkness, for the soft shift of feet or the brush of fabric. There was nothing. No one attacked me, and I was soon standing in front of the door without incident. It appeared to even be unlocked.

It seemed too easy. But what other option did I have?

I opened the door.

A mix of blue and white fluorescent light blinded me immediately, and I had to blink rapidly just to be able to get a little vision back. The change from dark to bright was disorienting, placing a small spin on my vision – something that took a few seconds longer to get rid of.

The first thing I noticed once I could see again was how spaciously large and utterly empty the room was, and that the walls were painted white, and the floor was light grey cement. That explained why it seemed so damned bright, even with what I noticed to be so few fluorescents.

The second thing I noticed was John.

He was approximately twenty metres in front of me, sitting, no, _tied_ , to a straight-backed chair with no armrests. There was a fresh cut on his forehead, a trail of dried blood dribbling from it that stopped short of his eyebrow. So it was at least ten minutes old.

I blinked. That did not match up with the time frame Dimmock had given me.

“John?”

I stepped slowly forward, not enough of an idiot to have lowered my SIG Sauer just yet.

John shook his head minutely – I had only just noticed the minor detail of his gag – his eyes wide as he stared at me. He started blinking rapidly, the motion seeming stuttered and disjointed. I paused, turning to look over my shoulder – there was nothing there except the closed door – before I turned back to John, studying the blinking.

 _Oh_.

 _Obvious_.

“Yes, John,” I murmured, proceeding forward after finally recognising the SOS he had been blinking out, “I know that this is a trap. Let’s get you freed first, though, yeah?” My voice betrayed how tense I was, but I kept walking forward until I was in front of John, who still had not stopped blinking at me.

I cupped his cheek, and he just shook his head, blinking more forcefully, if that was possible.

“John, _what_?” I asked, though it was impossible for him to answer me.

He somehow managed to.

John glanced down, and I followed his gaze, taking in his army fatigues, his Osprey vest, the lack of a PRR – both the earpiece and the main radio – and the empty appearance of the remainder of his pockets. But nothing unusual caught my attention.

I shook my head. “John, I don’t –”

But then I did.

Layers. There were too many layers. The vest had too much of a gap between its collar and the camouflage shirt that John was wearing.

Without really thinking, I set my gun down and lowered myself into a crouch in front of him before setting my fingers – my trembling fingers – to work at deftly undoing the straps and buckles that bound the Osprey body armour to John’s chest. I caught John turning his head away as one side of the vest came loose, quickly followed by the other. I undid the Velcro at the shoulders and pulled the front away.

I stumbled back onto my heels, staring at the mess of wires and mounds of Semtex that blanketed John’s abdomen and lower chest. My hand covered my open mouth for a moment, holding back the noise of disbelief and fear that I wanted to make.

 _Off, Sherlock, get it off_.

I shook myself, leaning forward and undoing John’s gag, immediately pulling his head my way and covering his mouth with my own. “You’re fine. I’ll get us out of here,” I promised.

John leaned back, shaking his head. “No, Sherlock, you don’t understand. They did just leave me here. They’re –”

“Watchiiing!”

I stiffened, my gaze shooting up to look over John’s shoulder into the shadows of a depressed doorway that I had failed to take into account in my initial disorientation.

“Been waiting a long time for you to arrive, Sherlock Holmes,” the previously sing-song and now nearly growling voice said, the words echoing around the expansive room.

Flicking my gaze up towards John, I shifted my weight, reaching for my gun at the same time that I casually stuck my hand into my pocket, wrapping my fingers around the handle of a knife.

“Ah, ah, ah.” The voice was back to being soft and childlike. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

I took my hand away from my gun, slipping my hand with the small knife grasped in its palm out of my pocket.

“And why not?” I asked, standing up and, in the same motion, slipping John the knife, spinning the chair around so that whoever I was addressing would not be able to see John cutting himself free, and drawing the M9 Beretta that I had taken off of the first man I had killed. “You won’t even show yourself, why should I be afraid of you?”

The man in the suit stepped out of the shadows, his hands in the pockets of his black trousers. He smiled slyly at me, wiggling his foot as he took another step forward. He was immaculately dressed in what appeared to be a Westwood suit, his dark hair combed back to show off a sharp face with intense and eye-catching features.

“Oh, my dear, you should be trembling in those borrowed military boots right now,” he said, still smiling at me as he approached. “But you know that, don’t you? You know who I am, what I can do.”

I shifted my hold on the gun, stepping forward a half step to place myself a little in front of John.

“Of course I do,” I said evenly, though my heart was hammering in my chest, my pulse jumping in my throat. “You’re the Spider.”

“Oh, good, good. _Very_ good,” he purred, stopping a little over a dozen metres away and waving his fingers playfully. “Jim Moriarty. Hi-ii.”

I gave a cursory nod at him, knowing that I had to keep talking to give John time to undo his wrists and reach for my gun, which was within easy grabbing distance of him.

“I’m assuming you know why I’m here?” I asked, bringing my other hand up to support the butt of the gun, holding it in a teacup grip.

Jim laughed, tipping his head back as if my words were the most ludicrous thing in the world. “Of course, I do, my boy,” he said, grinning wickedly at me. “Big brother sent you over here to get rid of me, his little problem, the thorn in his side. Too bad you’re going to fail.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked, sighting down the barrel of the Beretta. “What’s to keep me from shooting you right now? It would be easy, just a pull of the trigger, a small finger twitch – Berettas are extremely sensitive.”

Jim’s face turned ugly, his hands suddenly clenching at his sides. He cast his gaze upwards, and behind me John gave a sharp gasp.

“Sherlock…”

I twisted around, keeping the gun trained on Moriarty as I appraised John. My heart froze for three beats.

A multitude of red sniper dots covered his chest, and one hung between his eyes. I could imagine that there were just as many fixed on myself.

John gave a small nod, glancing briefly down. I smiled a little. He was almost free, then.

Too bad that would not help if he got shot, activating the bomb, and we were all blown a kilometre in the air.

 I turned back to the conductor. “What are you planning on doing with us?” I enquired, wondering if Lestrade and the others were on their way here; if they were going quickly and would make it on time to be sufficient back up.

“Isn’t it obvious?” The Spider asked, gesturing his arm grandly around the spacious and mostly empty room.

I tried to recall from memory what exactly was in the room. Boxes, mostly, and very few of them at that.

“Kill us?” I suggested, shrugging.

Jim raised his eyebrows at me, a look of massive disappointment falling over his features. “Kill you? Oh, Sherlock, honey, I’m not _that_ boring.”

I fought to control my face from twisting into the look of disgust that was bubbling up after he called me “honey.”

“What, then?” John snapped from behind me.

Jim looked humoured at the fact that John had spoken to him, giving John just the barest of glances before his attention was back on me. “Interesting little man you have there, Sherlock. So loyal. A well behaved little dog.”

I curled my lip in a snarl, my hands gripping the stock of the gun until they shook. “What are you planning on doing with us?” I asked, repeating my question.

Jim sighed, rolling his eyes. “Well, _obviously_ , I’m going to torture you. Rather, I’m going to let Sebastian have his fun with you, and I’m going to watch. And then we’ll just leave you here when we go off to find another base of operations. Or we’ll kill you when Seb’s had his playtime; I’m quite changeable.”

The malice hidden in the depths of that childlike voice sent chills up my spine, and I sent a quick glance at John, expressing and sharing my fear with him through my eyes. I saw it mirrored in his dark blue ones.

Muffled shuffling.

I spun back to Moriarty, but he had not moved. He looked at me curiously, though, his head cocked to the side. I dismissed it, trying to focus.

There. Behind me?

I listened harder, trying to act outwardly nonchalant.

Yes, behind me. _What was behind me?_ Door.

_Door?_

Enemy? Doubtful.

Lestrade.

“I don’t think Sebastian’s going to get to have his fun,” I said, readjusting my grip on my gun and aiming it better at Moriarty. From the corner of my eye, I noticed John’s arms give a small jerk as his wrists finally came free of their bindings.

Jim narrowed his eyes on me. “No?” he asked, taking a step forward. “And why might that be?”

It happened too fast.

I heard the door slam open behind me and shouts of “Get down!” and “Hands in the air!” rang out, echoing severely through the open air of the solid cement room. I fired off a shot instinctively at Moriarty, watching out of the corner of my eye as John dove for my SIG and raised it to shoot, though he was not aiming at Jim, but above him, at the rafters of the room.

I saw Jim grab his shoulder, I heard him scream in pain, but only had a fraction of a second to glorify in hitting him before more shots were fired.

John was on his feet, making his way towards Moriarty, who was trying to push to his feet from where he had fallen. John shot his knee.

I could not help my smirk.

Satisfied that John had the Spider under control, I relinquished my attention from him, raising my gun and my gaze to where John had fired his first shot – at the rafters of the room.

I had just enough time to blink – to recognise that a rifle was being aimed directly at me – before there was a gunshot that seemed louder than the others and I registered that I had been shot.

My right leg crumpled, and I collapsed to the ground. Fire. There was fire in my veins, starting from my thigh and spreading everywhere else.

Someone was screaming.

It was me.

“Sherlock!” A voice right in front of me, but my eyes were closed and I could not see. Hands cupping my face, shaking my shoulders, traveling down to press against my leg.

It felt like my bone shifted, cutting into my leg, and I screamed again, my shoulders rising up off the floor as I strained my neck. How I had not passed out yet, I was not sure, though I really did not have much time to give it thought.

“John! Dimmock’s down!”

The man beside me swore, and I forced my eyes open. John was bent over me, his hands – covered in thick red liquid – pressed against my leg. I noticed that the Semtex was gone, though I did not think to look for it, or to wonder when he had taken it off.

He glanced past me, and I turned the other way, seeing another prone figure, this one appearing to be choking. Someone was bent over him as well, but they looked lost, even from this distance.

Gunfire was like a heartbeat in the background, still going strong, racing along with my own.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” John swore, pressing harder on my leg, not apologetic in any form. I grabbed at his arm, trying to tear it off, to ease the murderous pressure, but I had no strength. None, at least, that could overpower the immense pain that I was experiencing.

“Where’s my _fucking_ backup?!” John screamed, twisting around to direct his voice towards the group of soldiers that were his, including the one that was fallen. When he moved, his hands twisted as well, causing a whole new level of pain.

My hands fisted and my eyes rolled back in my head. Everything went black and numb.

It seemed like only seconds had passed before I jerked awake. I was met with resistance, no longer in the empty storage room in the mountain complex. It was dark and cold, and the wind was hurricane force.

No, not quite that strong.

Helicopter.

I jerked at the restraints that bound me, realising that I was being moved closer to the flying vehicle.

“Sherlock, relax,” came a voice beside my ear, warm breath running down my neck.

I shivered, obeying the words that came from what I recognised as John’s voice. I turned my head, meeting his eyes. They looked grave and numb, about as numb as I felt.

My eyes slid past his as they started loading me into the chopper, noticing a second helicopter and a second stretcher carrying a limp body.

“Is that Dimmock?” I asked weakly, trying and failing for a third time to try sitting up.

“You need to stay down,” John said, though there was none of his usual heart in his voice.

“John? Is that Dimmock?” I demanded, my heart rate increasing drastically as fear pumped through me.

John’s eyes ignited, their inner fires jumping to life. “Sherlock, calm down. You need to lower your pulse, or you are going to bleed to death.”

_Bleed to death?_

_Oh. Right._

Gunshot. Leg.

Femoral artery.

But I could not. I could not calm down.

Someone who was not John yelled something at me and then yelled something at someone else. There was pressure on my leg. Something was said about bleeding through. I did not register any of it.

Dimmock was shot, severely injured. My mind could conjure up images of him choking around seemingly nothing as he was lying on the storage room floor. He was probably dying, and all because I had been shot. If I had not, John would have focused on him and not me.

My fault.

“Sherlock!” John screamed my name, grabbing at my hand, but I was slipping.

My vision was fading – blood loss – and my head was swimming.

“Don’t you fucking dare, you bastard!” Crying? Could not be. Not John.

_Sorry, John._

* * *

 

_"But dreams -- of those who dream as I,_   
_Aspiringly, are damned, and die."_   
_\- Edgar Allan Poe, Imitation_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus Christ, I am so sorry, everyone. I... really... my creativity level is so close to zero it's not even funny, and my motivation level is even lower. I don't know what's going on, aside from too much school. And then yesterday I was sick... but yeah, I'm still just posting pre-written things, so once I run out... I don't know. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, everyone :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, guys. My muse for this is gone. Completely. I have no idea where it went. But, I had written a seventh chapter for this, and I quickly wrote what I could for an epilogue. So I knew I have to share it with all of you lovely people.
> 
> So sorry for the wait, and I'm sorry that my muse vanished. This was a promising story, but I just can't write it any more.
> 
> Lot's of love, everyone <3

_“’Twere better than the old reality  
_ _Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,  
_ _And hath been still, upon the lovely earth.”_  
\--Edgar Allan Poe, Dreams

* * *

_“Sherlock, come here,” John requested, and there was no avoiding the command in his tone, no point in trying to deny the direct order._

_Of course, I knew better than to do that._

_I nodded, holstering my gun, which I had been in the process of running a safety check on. I followed as John walked away from the Vector and the rest of the team, the pale silver glow of the moonlight outlining his form and giving me a soft visual on him. By this point, my eyes were accustomed to the dimness of the night, and picking my way across the ground proved to be no challenge, but keeping track of John, who seemed to slowly fade into the background the longer I looked, was a bit more difficult._

_Eventually, he came to a halt, shadowed by a desert tree that was bare of its leaves, its branches stretching towards the clear, starry sky like bony hands, trying to grab onto a light that they could never have._

_“Yes?” I asked, halting in front of him, not ashamed to keep little distance between us._

_John looked up at me, his height posing no hindrance to his commanding state. He was in charge – that much was very clear to me. “I want you to promise me something,” he said quietly, his lowered voice giving the biggest clue to how important this was, and to how much he wanted it kept between us._

_I cocked my head, narrowing my eyes. “Go ahead.” I was not about to agree to anything before it had been laid out before me._

_John took a deep breath, looking more uncertain._

_I could tell immediately that this was about us – something personal that he still was not entirely comfortable speaking about._

_“I want you to promise me that, no matter what happens, you will keep yourself safe. Damn my safety and everyone else’s. I want you safe, alright?”_

_I looked at him intently, gauging the fear in his eyes, as well as the hesitancy. He knew what could come tomorrow, and he was no more ready for it than I was. I shook my head softly, looking down at him with wide, honest eyes. A rare gift._

_“I can’t promise you that, John,” I whispered, folding my hands in front of me. “I was sent here to do a job, and I need to see it through. No matter the danger level.”_

_John shook his head quickly, reaching for one of my hands. I could not help but admire the warmth that they brought, even through the brisk chill of the night air._

_“Sherlock, please. Please do this for me. I can’t go in there thinking about you constantly, wondering where you are in position to me, whether you’re closer to a shooter than I am, whether I would have enough time to jump in front of the bullet if you were shot at.”_

_I grabbed his shoulders, my eyes hardening. “You are going to do no such thing, no matter what I do or do not agree to,” I said firmly, squeezing his shoulders to make my point clear. “I am more perceptive than yourself; do you not think that I would hear the gunman, that I would shoot first or at least be able to get out of the way? I am not helpless, and I do not want you pulling a heroic stunt just for the sake of my life.”_

_John reached up, cupping my cheek, stroking his thumb over my cold cheekbone._

_“I can’t lose you,” he whispered, and I was not sure where the sudden sentiment had come from. He looked down, clearing his throat, but his hand remained in place on my face. When he looked back up, he was not the battle-hardened army doctor that I had previously been arguing with. Behind his eyes was just a man, a man who had seen too much and never been thanked for what he had done. A man who was hurting and desperate and needing something solid to hold on to._

_“Sherlock,” he whispered, and even his voice had lost the years of hard training, the multiple battle scars, and the too-high count of men who had died after John had tried to save them. “I’ve never… Since I was far younger, I’ve been a bit of a lady’s man; I even earned the title of Three Continents Watson. But Sherlock… Damn it, Sherlock, I’ve never felt like this. I don’t want to lose it – whatever it is – and I don’t want to lose_ you _.”_

_He took a long breath, his hand sliding down to rest firmly on my neck._

_“So you promise me,_ promise me _, that tomorrow, when we go in there, you won’t go running off. That you’ll stay by me and let me have your back. No matter what happens tomorrow, Sherlock, you_ stay next to me _.”_

_I closed the distance between our lips as soon as he had finished speaking. He made a small noise, one that I muffled with parted lips and the smooth glide of tongue. He wound his hand into my exposed hair, and I cupped the back of his neck, keeping him firmly pressed against me until we were both in desperate need for air._

_“I promise,” I replied between gasps of icy air. “I promise that I will stay beside you, but you must promise me that you won’t take a bullet for me. John, please, promise me that.”_

_John nodded, our foreheads resting together. “I promise,” he breathed, allowing me to expel a tensely-held breath._

_We were fine. We were going to get through this._

_I could worry about the rest later._

 

***

 

I jerked into consciousness with a force like plunging into cold water. I would know the sensation. I had jumped into the Thames in the dead of winter on more than one occasion in the name of apprehending a criminal.

It was not entirely a pleasant feeling.

My eyes were still closed, and I left them that way for the time being. The expanse of my body ached, the centre of the pain a dull throb through my right thigh. My lungs burned, and my head was buzzing, no doubt from the amount of drugs undoubtedly pumping through my system.

I had no illusions as to where I was.

The annoyingly consistent beeps and dings of machinery on my right, the stiffness of my leg that clued into a cast, the pinpricks of invasion every time I moved my arms that told of needles – IVs, to be more exact. And then there was the stench, one I had grown accustomed to from visiting the morgue. A smell that reeked of disinfectant and bleach. Sterile.

I slowly parted my eyelids, blinking around the bright fluorescent light that reminded me too much of the storage room in the complex. My pulse jumped at the thought, the memory. John bound to a chair, Semtex taped to his chest. Moriarty taunting us, laser beams that promised snipers and a quick death. The threat of torture and being left to die.

A gunshot.

I jumped, blinking rapidly at the memory of pain through my leg, the horribly grotesque feeling of a shattered femur shifting around, cutting up veins and muscle tissue every time I moved.

The door opened with a soft but echoing click and I yelped, trying to push myself back on the mattress, away from whatever threat was coming into the room.

A short man entered through the doorway, looking up at me. My eyes locked with dark blue ones, and time seemed to slow down.

White lab coat, blue shirt underneath. No tie – that would be insensible. Khaki trousers, brown shoes. His hair was combed and straight, not the sweaty ruffled mess that I had grown accustomed to. He was clean-shaven. But he was still John.

_John_.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, closing the door and stepping forward. He set the clipboard that he was carrying down at the foot of my bed as he walked closer.

Touching distance.

Less than a foot.

He stopped, looking down at me with a different light in his eye than I was used to. It brought out lighter colours in his irises, throwing off golds and ambers mixed with the dark blue, which was now touched with the colour of the sky when one thought it was completely dark, but if one would then look to the west, they would see that it was not entirely so.

His lips were covering mine before I could say anything, mixing my breath of relief with his exhale of pent up grief.

“John,” I breathed when he pulled away, my eyes finding his again.

He cupped my cheek, stroking his other hand through my curls.

I leant away, my brow furrowing, my eyes narrowing. “You broke your promise,” I accused. “What the hell were you thinking, running in there by yourself?”

John looked down, dropping his hands to his sides. He pulled up a chair, sitting down heavily in it, his elbows resting on his knees and his face burying itself in his palms.

“I wasn’t,” he replied quietly, glancing back up at me. “And I know… I know that’s not the answer that you’re looking for, but, Sherlock, I just had to. I had to get in there. All I could think about was you and the others – keeping you safe. I didn’t think that –”

“No,” I cut him off, “you didn’t think. Damn it, John, we all could have died. You broke the plan – _your plan_ – and chased off after someone that we knew next to nothing about. And he saw right through you, saw exactly whose weakness you were and he used that against you and against me, and to his great advantage.”

John nodded slowly, running a hand through his short blond hair, which seemed to have more grey in it than I last remembered.

Silence overtook us for a long moment, and I took the chance to relax, to ease my heart rate.

“Dimmock… he’s…”

I glanced over at John’s broken tone and sudden change in subject. My stomach plummeted. “Is he dead?” I asked quietly.

John took a long breath, dragging it in as if through shards of broken glass. “He’s in a coma. But I’ve been monitoring him, and… there’s no brain function. Not really. He’s living because he’s hooked up to life support.” John swallowed, shaking his head, the hand that was in his hair clenching into a fist. “They called his wife, and she told them to pull the plug. They had agreed on it, apparently, before he had left. She… she wants me to do it, though, and I can’t.”

I forgot my anger and my hurt just then, reaching out with my left hand and wrapping it around John’s wrist. I pulled it gently out of his hair and tugged on it, guiding John out of the chair and into my arms.

I held him for a long while, rubbing my hands over his back the way my mother had done to me when I had been younger. “It’s alright,” I murmured into his hair, though it was obviously far from it. “You don’t have to do it. No one’s going to make you.”

John leaned back, wiping at his eyes and letting out an unsteady breath. “You’re right,” he said. “But it was Dimmock’s wish, and it’s his wife’s wish, and I’ll probably end up doing it.”

I smiled a little, lifting my hand to smooth down John’s hair.

“So what’s with the clothes?” I asked, only to steer the conversation back into safer territory. I already knew why he was dressed like that, but he needed to distract himself.

John glanced down, as if he had forgotten what he was wearing. “Oh, this. I signed on as a doctor, relinquishing my infantry duties, so that I could keep an eye on you. I’m officially your doctor, in addition to a few other patients that I was required to take on as part of the deal.”

I nodded. “And my leg?”

“Will heal,” he said confidently. “You lost more blood than made me comfortable, but that’s been fixed now, as well. You need to leave the cast on for another five weeks, and then it’ll be physical therapy for two to three weeks, depending on how well you do. Your arm is the same, just less time on that,” he said, reaching up to fiddle with the bandage wrapped around my bicep. “And then you’re being sent home, and I’m coming with you.”

I narrowed my eyes, arching an eyebrow at him.

He waved an impatient hand at me, something that made me smile.

“I put in my notice. My tour technically ended last month, so I’m doing hospital work, and then when you leave, I go with you. Because, of course, I’m your doctor now.”

I reached out for his hand. “Yes, yes you are,” I agreed, squeezing his fingers between mine and resting my head back on my pillow.

“And I’m getting you a therapist,” he said firmly, hopping down from the bed and walking over to get his clipboard, which he started to scribble on.

I blanched, giving John an obvious look of disgust. “I don’t need a therapist.”

“Your elevated pulse when I walked into the room tells me something very different, Sherlock,” John said without looking up from his writing.

I rolled my eyes. “Well, I’m not going to talk to them, so you may as well not get me one.”

John clicked his pen and clipped it to the top of the clipboard, looking up and pinning me with a hard look. “I’m getting you one, and you will talk to her. You need to talk to someone, and you can’t talk to me.”

“Why not?” I asked softly.

“Because,” John said, giving me a small smile as he sat on the edge of the bed, “most of your problems revolve around me.”

“They don’t revolve around you,” I argued, folding my hands over my chest.

_They just involve you._

John smiled again as if guessing my unspoken words. “I would still like for you to talk to her,” he murmured, leaning forward to kiss my forehead. He stood slowly after he had pulled away, letting his lips linger for as long as possible. “I’ll be back for supper. I need to finish my rounds and update your medicine now that you’re conscious.”

“John,” I called, halting his motions when he was halfway to the door. He turned to look back at me, his eyebrows raised. “What happened to him?” I asked quietly. “To Moriarty?”

John stiffened at the mention of the criminal’s name, and I saw the horrors that I had not been able to stop flash across John’s expressive face. He ducked his head, as if knowing that I was reading him, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of the lab coat he was wearing.

“He… he didn’t die, unfortunately. Bloody bastard. That was a good shot, by the way.”

“John,” I said, trying to get him back on track.

He sighed, looking back up at me. “They shipped them – him and his right-hand-man, Sebastian, or whatever – home to London. Apparently the government is interrogating them or some bullshit. I say we should have just been allowed to shoot them and end the whole damned mess right here.”

“John,” I said again, softly, not liking seeing him like this.

But he just held up his hand, shaking his head. “I have to get back to work, Sherlock,” he said quietly, giving me a long look before turning from the room.

\----------------------------------------------------

“I called Harry last night,” John said from where he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands worrying the edge of the sheet between his hands. “She didn’t answer, though I don’t know why I was expecting her to.”

I turned to look at John while I was pulling on the new fatigues that he had brought me. They were not a perfect fit, as the ones Mycroft had given me had been, but they would work.

“Still can’t find a place to stay, then?” I asked, tugging the shirt down over my head.

John and the physical therapists had finally cleared me two days ago. I could walk without anything to support me now – though I still had a slight limp, one that worsened, it seemed, when I was upset – and I had full use of my arm again.

According to John, I was a walking miracle.

I told him that he should speak for himself, which shut him up.

John didn’t like to talk about his wound. He said it brought back old memories. I said it brought back old pain.

In the last seven weeks, John Watson has told me “piss off” fifteen times, “fuck off” twelve times, “shut up” twenty six times, and “I love you” forty-six.

John was a good soldier, a better doctor, and he was mine. He had said so three times, and he had said it with a smile. John was mine, and I was his.

It was all rather sentimental.

“No, I don’t,” John replied, shaking his head and bringing me out of my mind.

I walked over to the bed and sat beside him, touching our knees together. “Why don’t you stay with me?” I offered after a couple short moments. “It’s only logical. You’ll be seeing me every day anyway, because you’re my doctor and my…” I waved my hand in the air, not quite knowing how to refer to John.

Boyfriend? Better half? Other half? Partner? Significant other?

“Anyway, you may as well stay with me. There’s a room upstairs that you can use, and I’ll split the rent with you. The landlady’s nice, as well. She doesn’t yell at me if I’m getting into my experiments or some other business.”

I glanced over at John to see him grinning at me. “What?”

John shook his head, chuckling softly. “You want me to come with you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoffed, standing up and holding out my hand to John. “Of course, I do.”

John smiled wider, taking my hand and pushing to his feet. He was dressed in plain clothes, normal clothes. A green jumper and a pair of jeans.

I suddenly ached for my suits.

“Good, then?” I asked, releasing John’s hand as I led the way to the door.

“Hmm?”

“Got all the paperwork filled out, I mean. No complaints from the Major or from the system?”

“Oh,” John said, finally realising what I was asking. “Yeah, yeah, it’s all good. Everything worked out smoothly. I think they were all rather relieved to see me leave, to be honest. No one stays in the desert that long. Not as a Captain, at least, and not while denying promotion.”

I nodded, pulling open the door and walking out into the hallway.

None of the nurses tried to stop me, as they had been doing for the past week every time I had made a desperate run for a breath of fresh air, for the sight of the sun and some dirt again.

As soon as I stepped outside, I wondered why I had even bothered missing it.

And then I remembered that I did not miss this sky, or the yellow dirt that coated your throat if you did not drink enough water. I missed the early morning sunrises and the late afternoon haze of London, the grey pavement that seemed to cover everything.

“I know that look,” John said, smirking as he climbed into the back of a waiting Land Rover.

I smiled, climbing in beside him. “Yes, it’s a ‘thank God I’m leaving this bloody’ – Lestrade. What are you doing in here?” I narrowed my eyes at the man sitting in the passenger seat, easily recognising the salt-and-pepper hair from the number of times he had been to visit me in the hospital.

Lestrade turned around, nodding and smiling softly at the both of us. “They don’t let a plane leave for just one person. So I waited for the two of you. I can’t stay here. High time I left, anyway. Kinda like you,” he said, nodding at John with his last sentence.

John acknowledged him with a tip of his head. “Donovan and Anderson?” he asked, his hand bracing on the seat as the other soldier in the driver’s seat – a man I didn’t know – started up the vehicle and pulled away from the curb.

Lestrade shrugged. “They wanted to stay with the rest of the team. Said they didn’t feel done yet. God help them.”

“Cheers to that,” John muttered.

I stared out the window as we drove, taking in the short glimpses of desert beyond the brick and glass and steel buildings that I hoped to hell I would never, ever see again. I had not initially wanted to come to Afghanistan, and though I had obtained one nice thing from it, I felt different, changed, and I would be increasingly happy to go home.

The Kabul International Airport was a twenty-seven minute drive from the Wazir Akbar Khan Hospital, and when we arrived, we all walked together, single-file, through the terminal. We did not have to go through security or have our bags checked. The plane that we were taking back to London was small – too small to even be called a jet – and it was only holding four people for the journey – the three of us and the pilot, who was a retired British Army pilot, if I remembered correctly, and, of course, I did.

John entered the plane first with me right on his heels. The seats were aligned like a normal plane, not like the private jet of Mycroft’s that I had flown out here in, which had reclining and swivelling seats, as well as a sofa and a table.

Mycroft…

Why had he not contacted me yet?

There was no preflight briefing this time from any young flight attendant, whom I would have loved to pick apart and recount her life story to John. He most likely would have been amused, and I was gasping for some stimulation. But, no, there was just an aging pilot who told us all to put on our seatbelts and enjoy the ride, and then we were taking off.

I never once thought about crashing during the flight, or survival statistics if we were to crash. I listened to John and Lestrade talking and joking, and every so often I would smirk at something they would say.

It was a rather short-lived seven and a half hours.

When the plane touched down on the Heathrow landing strip at one in the afternoon, we were all exhausted, still stuck on the time zone we had just left, which was three hours ahead of us.

I made my way off of the plane only a step ahead of John, who steadied me as we fought to find our land legs again. My leg did not hurt, but the limp was still there when I tried to walk. John held out his arm for me to lean on, and I took it without a word, following him through the airport and towards the string of cabs that lined the edge of the street.

“I’ll call you boys soon,” Lestrade said, walking to one of the cabs. “We need to go out for a pint or something.”

John nodded, opening the rear door of a different cab. “Agreed. See you ‘round, Greg.” He slipped into the seat, and I quickly followed, happy to be home.

“Would you like to eat first?” I asked, holding a hand up to the cabbie to signal him to wait.

John chuckled a little, obviously on edge. He had not been in London in nine years, and much had changed since then.

“I have an eating disorder, and digestion slows you down, remember? Let’s just go to your flat. We can get takeaway tonight if we get hungry,” he suggested.

I nodded, lowering my hand and turning to the cabbie. “221B Baker Street, please.”

We pulled away from the curb, and somewhere before we reached Hatton Cross Station, my hand found John’s on the seat and laced our fingers together.

Silence took over the small space in the cab, filling the air with a near palpable thing, but it was comfortable, and the last thing I wanted to do was wisp it away, shatter it into the wind. So I gladly left it alone, just holding on to John’s hand and watching him stare out of the window.

When we pulled up in front of my flat, John paid the fare – my wallet had been blown up along with the other contents of my duffle bag when it was in the Vector – and I exited first, waiting for John on the pavement. My eyes skimmed over the outer shell of 221B as I vaguely listened to John getting out of the cab behind me. The building had not changed at all since my departure, and for that I was glad.

“Ready?” John asked, stopping beside me.

When I turned to look at him, his eyes were already on me.

I smiled. “Let’s go meet Mrs Hudson and see if she kept her word and dusted while I was away, yeah?” I asked, taking his hand in mine and walking up to the door. I gave three solid knocks before stepping back, squeezing John’s hand as we waited.

There was a short click, and then the door swung open.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times. I don’t want –” Mrs Hudson froze solid when she locked eyes with me.

Pupils widening, pulse increasing, skin becoming pale.

I stepped forward quickly, setting a hand on her upper arm just as she started to sway. “Mrs Hudson? Are you alright?” I asked quietly, looking back over my shoulder at John.

The older woman shook her head slightly, looking up at me with a stunned expression on her face. “You… I… but, your brother…”

I tilted my head, gently catching her chin with two of my fingers and my thumb, turning her head up to look at her properly.

“How about a nice cuppa?” John offered, suddenly appearing at my shoulder.

“Yes, that’s good,” I agreed, latching on to his words. “Come along, Mrs H, let’s get you back inside and sitting down.”

It was close to a struggle trying to steer my landlady over the threshold and down the hallway into her flat. She seemed too shocked to move, and it froze up her muscles and joints.

I guided her gently to her sofa, sitting down next to her and patting her much smaller hands. She immediately latched onto my fingers, clinging to them like a lifeline. I stared down at them for a moment, confused, before glancing up at John.

“The kitchen is through that doorway,” I told him, nodding at the small wooden door in question. “Do me a favour and go make some tea for her? I’ll see if I can talk her around.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Mrs Hudson said, and I could not help but smile down at her. “Earl Grey tea, two sugars,” she called after John, who was already disappearing through the kitchen door. Letting out a heavy breath, she turned back to me, her smile watery as she released one of my hands and reached up to cup my left cheek.

“Mrs Hudson, what’s wrong?” I questioned softly, leaning a little into her fragile but still strong hand.

She simply shook her head, dropping her hand and looking down.

I stayed quiet, knowing that she would talk when she was ready. She was the one person I would never push to tell me anything.

“I thought you had died. We all thought you had died,” she explained after a long moment, and she looked like she was reliving the moment that she found out yet again.

“What? How? Who told you?”

She shrugged, shaking her head again. “Government men. They stopped by, told me that there had been a shootout or… or something, and that you had been fatally wounded. And your brother…” She choked a little, a hand fluttering up to cover her mouth.

Fatally wounded. Yes, that was correct. I just had not died from the wounds. Dimmock had.

I furrowed my brow.

“What about my brother, Mrs Hudson?”

She choked on a sob, and I took my hands from hers, setting them firmly on her tiny, bony shoulders.

“Mrs Hudson. What about him? What happened to Mycroft?” There was a desperate edge to my voice that I hated, because I cared for my brother, but I so rarely showed it, even to him.

The sound that tore from her was one that begged for forgiveness, and at the same time it told of so much shared agony. “He had a heart attack when he heard the news. I’m so sorry, dear, but he’s… he’s gone.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded, for only five seconds before I was on my feet and limping for the door.

“Sherlock! Where are you going?”

I ignored John, who had suddenly appeared through the kitchen doorway, and threw open the thick wooden door, stepping unevenly down onto the pavement. I quickly walked up to the edge of the street and flung my hand out for a cab.

I could hear John running after me, but I did not care, slamming the door on the cab and telling the cabbie to drive off, giving him the address of a cemetery.

I did not look back as we pulled away from the curb, leaving John behind.

* * *

 

_“I have been happy, tho’ [but] in a dream.  
_ _I have been happy—and I love the theme.”_  
\--Edgar Allan Poe, Dreams


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock says goodbye to his brother.

_“Thy soul shall find itself alone  
_ _‘Mid dark thoughts of the grey tombstone—”_   
_\--Edgar Allan Poe, Grave_

* * *

 

I felt like it should have been raining when I stepped out of the cab at the cemetery, asking the driver to wait for me. There were no cabs that would drive down this street, and I would rather pay John back extra money when I returned home than have to walk back to the main road. Plus, I had no money to pay the driver with now.

I limped through the old iron gates slowly, knowing that he would have been buried here, that this cemetery and this cemetery alone would have fit his high standards.

If I was being honest with myself, though, I really didn’t know my brother that well. I only knew that he had requested to be buried here because I had stumbled across the paperwork one day while I was looking through his desk.

He had never once told me his wishes.

I had never once told him mine.

It wasn’t easy finding my brother’s grave site. The ground was all but undisturbed, but I didn’t expect much less, given that he had to have… been buried nearly a month ago.

I finally stumbled upon the massive, elaborate white headstone towards the rear of the cemetery, underneath the canopy of a Beech tree, reading Mycroft’s name with a slow hesitance.

 

**Mycroft Holmes**

**November 7, 1974 – March 15, 2013**

 

That was it. Just a name and a date. No quote, saying, meaningful phrase. Nothing personal about my brother on the cold hard stone except for the cold white stone itself.

I stopped just short of the granite structure, placing all of my weight on my left leg because my right one was aching. I stared blankly at the pearly white stone that reminded me nothing of my brother, except for the blank, reflective surface.

“You’re a dick,” I whispered, sucking in a sharp breath and staring up at the leaves fluttering in a nearly non-existent breeze.

“The shortness of breath, leaning heavier on your umbrella, actually having burial plans…” I slipped into my deductions, because I had nowhere else to go. “Heart problems. Obvious. Should have been obvious.

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” I screamed, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. “I’m your brother! I should have been the first person to know!”

I wasn’t sure why I was screaming, why or how I had lost control so quickly, but I couldn’t get an ounce of it back.

“You sent me away on purpose, didn’t you? You knew! You _knew_ that you were going to die soon, and you didn’t want me around! Why? Why?!”

I tried to step forward, every intent on kicking at his grave, wanting to break it, to tip it over, destroy the evidence that Mycroft was dead. But as soon as I placed my weight on my recently healed leg, it gave out, and I fell to my knees.

The small failure of movement broke me, and I collapsed, wrapping my arms around my waist and nearly folding in half. Sobs ripped from my chest, threatening to tear me apart. I screamed through them – no words, just sound – and then the sobs eased off, turning into quiet tears.

“Please,” I whispered, lifting my head to look up at the headstone. “Mycroft, please. You’re smarter than this. You wouldn’t have let it get this far. Don’t do this to me.” I swallowed, trying to lift up my torso to sit but not managing it. “Damn it, Mycroft, please! You can’t leave me! Middle age be damned, you’re too young to be dead, and you were still smarter than me.”

Tears took over me again, tightening my throat and making it impossible to talk. I gave up trying to sit up, trying to crawl towards Mycroft’s grave, and eventually just collapsed on my side, having no strength left to give a damn.

* * *

 

_“Be silent in that solitude  
_ _Which is not loneliness—”_   
_\--Edgar Allan Poe, Grave_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a lovely and much too short journey with you all, and I so very much hate to leave you all like this. It's a shitty ending and I know it, but I didn't want to leave you all hanging onto a story that was never going to be finished. 
> 
> On the plus side, if my muse for this ever DOES return, I will simply make a sequel, and that should be equally as good, yes?
> 
> Thank you to everyone who stuck with me; lots of love to you all.


End file.
